Ruthless
by auri mynonys
Summary: Beckett ruthlessly pursues a woman who has made it clear she does not want him. BeckettOC
1. The Dark Streets of London

London's slums were not a pleasant place to be at night - especially on nights as black as pitch, where not a single star peeped through the thick, dark clouds that hung threateningly overhead. _A night such as this,_ Lord Cutler Beckett thought with a small frown as his carriage came to an abrupt halt. _In nights like this, anyone can hide in the darkness and never be found…_

Beckett was not pleased to be out that night. He had intended to remain in his office for the evening, checking over East India Trading Company ledgers and ensuring that they were correct. It was a tedious task, but necessary, and Beckett had never been one to put off necessary work merely because he did not wish to do it. His tenacity and discipline were part of the reason he had risen to such great power in so brief a period of time, and they were attributes he greatly admired about himself.

Of course, he was Beckett. He admired virtually _every_ attribute he possessed.

But his tenacity at times could be annoying - especially when it involved him in situations such as this. Chasing down an errant (and arrogant) young noblewoman and spying on her was not at all what Beckett had wished to do that night. But the ever-charming (and ever-elusive) Miss Victoria Thorne was Beckett's prime target of interest, and when her maid reported to Beckett's clerk that she had disappeared into the night - well, he had had to follow.

Beckett turned his eyes almost idly to the very clerk who had brought him the night's invaluable information - Mr. Mercer. Mercer was Beckett's most loyal minion and best associate, and on occasions like these Beckett was particularly grateful for him. Mercer was present to do all of Beckett's dirty work - work that might cause a stain on Beckett's surprisingly flawless reputation. It would not be Beckett following Miss Thorne through the streets that night - it would be Mercer.

"You know where she's going?" Beckett asked, breaking the silence that had hung in the carriage for the vast majority of the ride.

"A combination inn and brothel called _The Blind Beggar,_" Mercer answered matter-of-factly. "She has several associates there who she meets when she can - the primary one being a man who goes by the name of Orson."

"Ah, yes," Beckett said disdainfully. "The pirate."

"Yes," Mercer agreed with an almost equal amount of contempt. "That one. My sources tell me they've been lovers for quite some time."

"I trust you will see to it that such liaisons cease?" Beckett questioned - but not so much a question as a command.

Mercer grinned, a dark, merciless grin. "As you command, sir," he said, and with that, he swung open the carriage door and leapt nimbly out, disappearing into the darkness.

Beckett settled back in the carriage seat to wait.

- - - - - - - - -

Unlike his employer, Mercer loved the darkened streets of London's slums. The sense of danger that was ever-present, the smell of rot, the drunken celebrations that masked the shattered lives of those unfortunate enough to live here - all of it brought him a twisted sort of joy. Ruin and decay had engulfed Mercer as a boy; now he wrought both upon anyone who stood in his master's way.

In places such as this, of course, ruin and decay were both abundant, and nowhere could examples of both be seen more prominently than in the _Blind Beggar_.

Run by a foreign couple known as Maximino and Magana Macias, the _Blind Beggar_ had an incredible reputation for miles around as the best bawdy-house and inn in the area. The place was overflowing with pirates, whores, thieves, traitors, and other scum of the earth. Anyone of the aristocracy who was unfortunate enough to enter the place usually found themselves robbed blind and left on the street before they could spend any significant amount of time there.

There was only one aristocrat who had managed to slip beyond this barrier, and her name was Victoria Trilby Thorne.

Unusually romantic and incredibly naïve, the lovely Victoria had often come down to the _Blind Beggar_ with her governess as a child (needless to say, her governess was less than strict and less than appropriate for a young aristocrat's daughter; Victoria learned more willfulness and vice than demureness and propriety from her.) There, while the governess had gotten quite drunk, Victoria had been regaled by stories of the great deeds of pirates by the various sailors who visited the tavern. The stories, unfortunately, had quite gone to her head, and she had fallen in love with them in the worst way - even going so far as to take a pirate for a lover.

Of course, none of this was known within the circles of high society, for which, Mercer thought with a wry grin, her family should have been quite grateful. If any nobles had known of her activities… well, she would have been shunned and her family utterly ruined. And it would only have been made worse if word would have gotten out that Victoria had taken a lover and long ago lost her innocence to him.

How fortunate, then, that the one man who did not care what sort of company she kept was the man most likely to win her hand.

Cutler Beckett was the sole person whom Mercer admired in any way. Beckett appeared the epitome of a gentleman, but he was as vicious and ruthless as any cutthroat who inhabited these dank and unhappy streets. He wielded more power than virtually any lord in Parliament and was not afraid to use it to get precisely what he wanted. He had literally thousands of enemies, but he was clever enough to know how to beat them into submission, and how to protect himself against them should they attempt to kill him. Mercer wouldn't have been surprised if Beckett somehow manipulated the rule of England right from King George's hands.

Most importantly, when Beckett decided that he wanted something, he fought for it with total abandon, cutting down any who stood in his way until at last he reached the final goal. There was nothing in the world out of Beckett's grasp - even if there were those who believed otherwise…

Mercer walked up to the door of the _Blind Beggar_ and peered in through the window, his eyes coming to rest on an exquisitely beautiful and well-dressed young woman seated with a much harsher looking man who appeared to be in about his mid-thirties. Mercer studied her face for a long moment and shook his head. _She_ was one of those who believed she could escape Beckett's insidious reach. Poor, naïve little Victoria actually thought that she would be able to evade him in the end; but she had no idea how closely guarded she was, nor how soon she would be utterly cut off from this world of scum that she so idealized.

The girl had been most foolish in her dealings with Beckett - most foolish, indeed. But, Mercer thought with a slight mental shrug, it seemed in her nature to note men's attentions, accept them, and then almost instantly turn about and reject them. But toying with Beckett… well, that had been clear and simple stupidity on her part.

Mercer still remembered the idle way Beckett's gaze had wandered to Victoria. They'd been standing in an upper level of balconies overlooking the ballroom floor of the Whitlock mansion, and Miss Thorne had been across the way, staring absentmindedly downwards into the crowd below her and looking immensely bored. She must have felt Beckett's stare, because she looked up and met his gaze head on; then, pretending continued disinterest, had turned away with a slight flourish of her fan.

Mercer didn't know what else had occurred that night, but he remembered that Beckett had almost casually wandered to where she stood. He knew they talked a long time, and that Victoria had been the worst of flirts, and then had turned icy and aloof. And he knew she had flatly refused Beckett's request to dance with her and to walk with her around the gardens.

Refusing Beckett was not a wise idea. Typically, it infuriated him, and when Beckett was infuriated, heads tended to roll - literally. Interestingly, in this situation her rejection had merely intrigued him.

She was lucky in that regard, even if she did not believe it so.

His curiosity had been mild at first, and their conversations at public functions were always brief and always ended in some variety of argument. Eventually their arguments grew longer and more pronounced; her rejections more blatant and more public; and Beckett's previously mild curiosity exploded into the very dangerous need to possess.

After all, Beckett wanted only the best in everything - and the best of women, in his mind, would be disdainful of his power and his wealth, would in fact expect such things as part and parcel of her suitor. Victoria's contempt for him and everything he owned inflamed him, made him want smash her resistance and see her fall beneath his control.

Beckett had always loved the challenge of triumphing over that which he could not control.

Mercer stared hard at the girl inside the inn, her face alight with a joyous smile and her green eyes sparkling with such happiness. It didn't seem possible that such an innocent little creature had the gall to resist the most powerful lord in England. But her resistance would not last long. Plans were already in place to bring her to her knees. Soon enough, she would belong completely and utterly to Lord Beckett.

Soon.

- - - - - - - - -

Victoria Thorne could barely hear her lover's voice over the sounds of drunken song and raucous laughter that echoed loudly about the _Blind Beggar_, but she didn't really care. She loved this place, for all its dirtiness and filth. It was home to some of the finest people she knew - brave people, good people, whatever their reputation in the world above might be. And it had been far too long since she'd had a chance to be here - three months, at least. She had missed this place, had missed its people - especially Orson.

Orson was a sailor aboard the pirate Tyris Burton's ship _Redemption_, and it wasn't often that he was at home. When she had gotten the letter from him three nights previously, she had made every possible preparation to ensure that she could escape the house. It had been so long since he'd been back…

Victoria carefully studied Orson's face as he told her one of many stories about his adventures on the high seas. His eyes were dark brown, as was his hair, which curled slightly over his forehead and was held out of his face by a thick strip of cloth tied around his head. His skin was tanned from all his time in the sun. Despite his somewhat weathered appearance, Victoria didn't believe there was a man more handsome than he.

He leaned closer to her and shouted over the din, "How have things been since I've been gone?"

Victoria also leaned in and replied, "Lonely, but ever interesting. Such is the way of the aristocracy…"

Orson chuckled slightly. "What's been happening at the watering holes of the well-to-do?"

Victoria sighed and took a sip of Orson's rum. "Oh, the usual drama, of course," she said in a bored tone. "So-and-so wishes to wed so-and-so but someone is interfering…"

"I trust that such is not the case with you," Orson said, raising an eyebrow.

Victoria hesitated, a sudden frown crossing her otherwise happy face. _She_ had no desire to marry any nobleman who had sought her so far, and had been quite capable of driving them off… save one.

"Well…" she said finally, "Lord Beckett seems rather interested in me…"

Orson choked on his rum. "Beckett?" he repeated, and he sounded almost horrified. Several pirates' heads swiveled in their direction at the mention of the name. "What's he want with you?"

"Presumably what most bachelor nobleman want," Victoria said, a little surprised at his reaction. "A wife."

"Are you certain?" Orson asked forcefully. "Does he know of your… er… adventures down here?"

"Of course not," Victoria said indignantly. "How would he have any idea?"

"You will find that Beckett is uncommon good at receiving and using information," one pirate interjected, dragging his chair to their table. "Especially when that information involves pirates. The man deplores us."

"He wants to wipe us all out," another agreed darkly. "He thinks we stand in the way of his oh-so-precious East India Trading Company."

"Damn right we do!" a third pirate roared drunkenly, and his cry was met with loud cheers and laughter. "We could slay the entire East India fleet if we chose!"

"You're a fool if you believe that," Orson said grimly. "Beckett has the entire royal navy at his command as well as his own ships. He could destroy us all, even if we stood together."

"Gentlemen, I'm sure you have nothing to be concerned about," Victoria soothed. "No one else in the aristocracy knows of my visits here; why should he?"

"As I said," the first pirate warned, "He knows a whole lot of things the rest of the aristocracy don't. If he discovers the link between you and us, he'll exploit it until this entire wharf is under his control and all of us are hangin' from a gallows, mark my words."

Orson was nodding in agreement, a concerned frown on his face. "Bloody hell, Victoria, why did you come here when you knew he might be following you?" he growled, slamming his mug of rum on the table.

Victoria cowered back slightly as the other pirates turned heated stares to her face. "I… I didn't think…" she stuttered, stunned that they would blame her for such a development.

"No, clearly you didn't," Orson snapped, "Or else you wouldn't be here now." He looked around almost nervously. "We should get you out of here," he said.

"But I've only just arrived!" Victoria cried. "And I haven't seen you in so long…"

"You'll have to wait a bit longer then, won't you?" Orson said frostily. "Go on, then. I'm sure your servant's waiting for you in the same spot as usual."

Victoria stared at the mob of irate faces around her and chewed her lip unhappily. "I don't understand why you're so afraid," she said finally, allowing her own anger to show. "I didn't realize that I was surrounded by weak men who cowered at the mention of Beckett's name – Beckett, of all people, who probably couldn't harm you even if he tried."

"You would be wise, Miss Thorne, to cower yourself," the pirate who first spoke warned her. "If what you've said is true, you've caught his attention – and believe you me, if that attention flourishes too much, you'll find yourself fearing him just as much as we do."

One of the other pirates who had joined their conversation stood and bowed mockingly to her. "My deepest sympathies to you, Lady Beckett," he said sardonically. She stiffened and opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off. "No, don't deny the title that will be yours," he said harshly. "For if what you say is true, and Beckett wants you as his wife… no one, least of all you, is going to stop him."

She glared at him, furious words boiling into her mouth, but she lifted her chin and flounced out, her skirts swishing softly behind her as she left.

She was so caught up in refusing to look at any of the denizens of the _Blind Beggar_ that she didn't notice the one figure in the shadows that might have interested her. Chuckling wryly once she had passed, the man in the shadows unfurled himself and entered the tavern, turning over the words he had heard in his head.

- - - - - - - - -

Damarah Stovall was good at her job, and proud of it, too.

Granted, her job was prostitution, but even the lowliest of the low needed something to take pride in.

She hadn't been much in demand yet that night, as most of the men had been drinking and telling stories. Besides, Victoria Thorne had been in, and most of the scum there liked to get a good, long look at her in her fine clothes and with her incredible jewels before they dragged a poor whore upstairs to live out their frenzied fantasies about her. Much as each man among the lot of them hated the wealthy nobles, they all wished Victoria had fallen in love with them, instead of a no-account deckhand like Orson Shaw.

Damarah didn't like Orson much. He was a liar and a cheat and he liked to hit the prostitutes when he used their services. Of course, Damarah being the type she was, had hit him back, and that had been the end of their business relationship. But there were other reasons she despised him – largely, in fact, because of his relationship with Victoria.

Damarah was actually rather fond of the Thorne girl. She had something that all women who lived in the slums lacked – innocence. One of Damarah's frequent clients, as he had been describing her, had said she was "still shiny." Damarah liked that – _still shiny_, like the world was still bright and fresh and new about her, instead of run-down and tired and old.

Damarah glanced at the door and saw the very client who had dubbed Victoria "shiny" entering the tavern. She grinned broadly and sauntered down the tavern stairs to meet him. "Mr. Mercer," she said, the smile on her face also apparent in her voice.

Mercer glanced over his shoulder and returned the grin. "Miss Stovall," he said, inclining his head. "Been busy this evening?"

"Not a customer all night," she said, pouting slightly. "They've been drooling over other, more worthy prey."

"I can't begin to imagine who that might be," Mercer said. The banter was easy and familiar, and Damarah liked it. Mercer didn't flirt, ever, with anyone; she was the only exception to this very solid rule, and even then the flirtation wasn't remotely genuine - it was simply a cover for their more important business.

She raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly in the direction of the stairs. "Come up and I'll tell you about her," she offered.

Mercer shrugged slightly. "I can't stay," he said. He didn't sound particularly regretful.

If he were any other man, Damarah would have pouted until he gave in, but it was unlikely he would have remained, anyway. Mercer only rarely used the services she offered as a whore, and only when he'd been having an incredibly difficult time of it. Since he'd been employed by a new noble – he'd never told her who – he hadn't had a bad week. Damarah simply shrugged and led him upstairs to her room.

When the door was safely shut and barred, she said, "That girl you wanted to know about – the Thorne girl – she was here tonight."

"Was she, now?" Mercer didn't appear to be surprised. "What was she doing here?"

"Meeting with Orson Shaw," Damarah said in disgust. "He's the one who's her lover, you know. I told you about him last time."

"I remember," Mercer said. He leaned casually against the wall and asked, "What are Orson's intentions towards Miss Thorne?"

Damarah shrugged again. "He claims he's going to take her away someday and marry her," she said. "She believes he'll whisk her off into some mystical life of adventure and happiness."

Mercer shook his head slightly, disbelievingly. "Still shiny," he murmured. "I don't remember a time where I was ever so innocent."

Damarah sighed sadly. "Me, neither," she said. After a moment, she continued, "She claims Cutler Beckett's got an interest in her."

Mercer chuckled. "Indeed he does," he said. "Unfortunately for her…"

"I should say so," Damarah agreed. "It's frightened all the pirates here half to death. They think he'll discover her connection with them and use her to wipe them all out. Do you think he's got spies down here, watching us, revealing things to him?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," Mercer said seriously. "So you'd best keep a tight rein on your tongue, or else information may fall into the wrong hands."

"It's only you I ever tell things to," Damarah assured him. "I trust your lord won't use it in the wrong way."

"Oh, don't worry, Damarah," Mercer said. "It'll be used for the common good."

"I'm glad to hear it," she said fervently. She tilted her head slightly to the side and said, "Any more questions?"

"Is Miss Thorne returning here any time soon?"

"I doubt it," Damarah snorted. "The pirates here practically threw her from the tavern once they heard Beckett might be chasing her. She's a willful little thing, though, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes," Mercer said darkly, "But I suspect that won't last much longer."

"Not with Beckett hounding her at every turn," Damarah said, shaking her head. "Poor girl. I only hope she finds out a few things about Orson before she comes back. Maybe that'll ease the pain of her marriage."

Mercer looked intrigued. "Such as…?" he asked.

"Oh, just thinking out loud," Damarah sighed. "Seeing as Orson's married and all already…"

"Is he?" Mercer pounced on this tidbit of information almost gleefully. "To whom?"

"Some girl named Jane," Damarah said, waving a hand dismissively. "I think her last name used to be Thrush. They've got three boys now – lovely children, all. No idea that her husband's been seeing a dainty little rich girl for nigh a year now."

"How tragic," Mercer said, in a voice that clearly indicated he did not believe it tragic at all. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small purse of coins. "Thank you for the information, Damarah," he said, tossing the coins to her.

"I wish you could stay longer," Damarah blurted out, and blushed furiously at the words and wished she hadn't said them.

Mercer looked vaguely surprised by the comment, but seemed preoccupied and therefore didn't say anything rude in response. He waved a hand and muttered, "Maybe another time," and then turned and rushed out, skipping down the stairs and then striding hurriedly out the door.

Damarah watched him go, chewing slightly on her fingernails. Sometimes she wondered if giving him information without knowing his employer was the right thing to do. But she'd known him for years. He was one of relatively few people she trusted, even though she knew implicitly that she shouldn't. She'd let it go a little longer before asking who he worked for.

She nodded decisively, then put on her best smile and waltzed flirtatiously into the middle of the tavern. Time to do some honest business… or as honest of business as could be found in the dark streets of London.


	2. An Unfortunate Encounter

Victoria's servant was not, in fact, waiting for her at their usual rendezvous point. Doubtless he'd assumed that she'd be awhile and had decided to find a place to rest and drink. Places with rum and the like were abundant in this area. There was virtually nothing that could not be bought or sold in London's slums.

Victoria didn't like standing the darkness alone. She'd heard whispers of attacks, murders, and rapes when carriages broke wheels or lost horses in this area. She'd managed to convince herself for quite some time that she was immune to such attacks; after all, she'd been visiting this place since she was a girl. Surely everyone here knew that.

She shivered and leaned nervously against the wall, tugging at her sleeves and wishing she had a cloak. It was frigid outside – almost as frigid as Orson's voice as he'd sent her away.

Victoria stiffened at the thought of Orson. Why had he been so quick to anger tonight? Surely he could be more reasonable than that. Surely he didn't really think Beckett would use her to chase down the others. Beckett wouldn't do such a thing. She stopped short of saying that he wouldn't be clever enough to do so, because from her many arguments with him she'd gathered his intellect was rather impressive, no matter what he as a person might be like.

She toyed idly with a strand of pearls around her neck. Pearls were incredibly expensive and difficult to find, and Victoria was quite proud of the massive strand she wore - despite it being a gift from Lord Beckett. Her frown deepened as she ran her fingers over the near-perfect sphere of one pearl. She knew relatively little of Beckett's activities in the East India Trading Company, save that he was its Supreme Head and that he ran virtually everything the Company did. Some said he'd sell his soul for the Company if it was demanded of him; others joked that he already had.

Whatever he did had made him vastly rich and powerful, and as such he was also immensely desirable. Perhaps not the most physically attractive of men, Beckett was witty enough to charm the ladies and rich enough to make them swoon as he passed. Strangely, he took relatively little interest in any of these women. When he paid the slightest bit of attention to one, she was certain to brag about it for months to come.

A clear example was an attractive young daughter of a Lord - Charlotta Harris. Charlotta was already immensely proud, even going so far as to brag about the uniqueness of her name. One night Beckett had politely requested to dance with her. They danced once, and never again. Yet, at every single ball that summer, Victoria and her friends heard Charlotta continuously prattle about how Beckett was most certain to propose, that she would be the wife of the richest and most powerful man in England besides the King.

Victoria didn't believe there was any truth to Charlotta's claims - especially since Beckett had become so avidly interested in her. She had made every possible effort to stave him off, refusing him whatever he asked of her and doing her best to remain icy and aloof when he spoke to her. Somehow, this only appeared to whet his appetite - and in his eyes when he looked at her was a dangerous gleam that seemed to say, _Go on, Victoria; fight, fight with all the fury in your soul. Much good may it do you… for it is already too late. You __**will**__ belong to me._

Victoria shuddered in the darkness. She would not let him win; she _couldn't_. She had a future planned, a future with Orson, the man she loved. She would allow nothing to destroy that - not even Beckett.

Victoria forced Beckett from her thoughts and shifted impatiently. Where was her servant? Surely he would return any moment now to see if she'd arrived. He was a good, faithful servant - he would never leave her alone and frightened in the middle of a dark -

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off as someone came up from behind her and covered her mouth. "Well, well," a male voice sneered. "Lookee what we got here, boys - a pretty little noble lady."

Approximately three distinct laughs answered the comment. "Watcha doing down here, lovely lady?" one of the men mocked as the one gripping her dragged her into the shadows. "Shouldn't you be at home practicing your embroidery?"

She struggled to escape the grasp of the man holding her, but she was far too weak for that. She knew nothing of how to defend herself - Orson had never taught her and no one else was willing to risk their reputations by showing a fine lady the art of fighting and killing. Even if they had taught her, she honestly doubted that she would have the courage to kill someone. The images of spurting blood and gore made her queasy.

The man holding her released her slightly and twisted her about, roughly slamming her against the hard brick wall. "She's a pretty one," he noted.

"Hard to tell in the dark," one of the men responded. She could see their vague shadowy shapes approaching her through the gloom.

She tried to think of something courageous to say, but couldn't. The things brave maidens usually said in stories merely seemed like ridiculously stupid blustering, now that she was actually trapped and not simply imagining it.

"Cat's got her tongue," one of the criminals noted with a nasty little giggle. "I think she's frightened."

_Well of COURSE I'm bloody frightened!_ Victoria thought, and later she would be surprised that she had even been capable of indignation.

"What's your name, darling?" a third man asked her. "You've got a name, don't you? And a nice little title, too…"

"And some coins, I don't doubt," the man still pinning her said, his voice laced with greed. "Where're you hiding your money?"

She was too terrified to respond, even if she would have wanted to. She dug her fingernails into her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, merely praying she would escape this terrible situation alive.

The man laid a hand on her windpipe and started to choke her. "Where's the bloody money, you little whore?" he snarled. "Tell me or I'll choke it from you!"

Without air to breathe or courage to liven her tongue, there was certainly no way Victoria was going to be revealing where her money was hidden. She silently reviewed a list of her sins in her head and begged forgiveness from the good Lord while she struggled to breathe.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the darkness. The big man strangling her grunted, released his grip on her windpipe, and sank to the ground with a low groan. Victoria also slid down the wall, sucking air into her lungs as rapidly as possible - which was how she missed the deaths of the other three men. This was probably fortunate, considering the way blood gushed from one's head when a bullet met with it, and that the other two men were killed by throwing knives that lodged directly in their eyes.

Victoria was still gasping for air when her rescuer approached from behind her and bodily pulled her to her feet. "You're quite lucky I was in the neighborhood, Miss Thorne," a distinctly accented voice told her. "Seems like you got yourself into quite a scrape."

Victoria massaged her burning throat and turned a suddenly nervous eye on her rescuer. "Mr. Mercer?" she said hesitantly.

He guided her out onto a brighter area of the street. "I've no idea what business you have down here," Mercer told her, "But this is most certainly not the place for a young lady like yourself. Lord Beckett will see to it that you get home safely."

Victoria tripped on the hem of her dress, still quite dizzy and also growing more alarmed at the mention of Beckett. "Beckett?" she repeated. "What's he doing here?"

"Carriage broke a wheel," Mercer said, deftly bending over and sweeping the highly unsteady Victoria off her feet. "But don't worry too much; we've fixed it. I don't think you'll be able to walk the rest of the way," he added, by way of explanation for carrying her.

"You're probably right," Victoria croaked regretfully. "And I know you're lying about Beckett's reason for being here. You don't have to play games with me."

Mercer chuckled. "Not as naïve as you appear, hmm?" He turned down several twisting and frighteningly dark streets. Victoria's grip on his shoulders tightened as they passed through the darkest areas. Her body was screaming at her to be on alert, now that she'd been stupid enough to let her guard down and had almost died for it. Fortunately, for whatever reason the eerie back streets were deserted, and no one else bothered them.

After the space of a few minutes, Mercer arrived in a small plaza where a carriage was sitting almost expectantly. He approached it calmly and certainly but made no move to open the door. There appeared to be someone inside, for there was a slight lantern glow peering through dark curtains that covered the carriage's windows. Mercer lifted a foot and lightly kicked at the door. Hearing the rapping, the occupant pushed back the curtains briefly, took in the situation, and then hurled open the door. "Bloody hell, Mercer, what happened?" a too-familiar voice swore. Victoria turned her head just in time to see herself switched from Mercer's arms to Beckett's.

"You _are_ spying on the pirates here, aren't you?" she said, her voice raspy.

Beckett smoothly lifted her into his carriage and laid her on the full length of the seat, with her head resting against him. She sat up and swirled dizzily in place. Beckett removed his frock coat from his shoulders and placed it over hers, leaving one arm firmly wrapped around her shoulder. "We should get her home," he said, an order and not a suggestion. Mercer nodded shortly and slammed the door shut, leaping into the driver's seat and starting the carriage off. Beckett turned his full attention back to Victoria. "What in God's name happened?" he demanded.

"I was here… umm… looking for one of my servants," she said, doing her best to think quickly. "I was searching to see if I might have missed him on one of the corners when a man came up behind me and dragged me into an alley."

"Did he hurt you?" Beckett asked, his voice icy. Victoria pitied whoever was to be the recipient of his frigid rage.

"He started to strangle me," she said. "But then… I think… Mercer shot him."

Beckett couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face. "Good man, Mercer," he murmured to himself. "You are otherwise unharmed, I trust?"

"He didn't rape me, if that's what you mean," Victoria said bluntly.

Beckett's smile reappeared briefly at her frank response. "I am certain we are all glad of that," he said. He tilted his head slightly and asked, "What did you say you were doing here?"

Victoria could barely think straight. She was recovering from a terrible attack and just beginning to feel her terror's aftermath, and she didn't want to respond to such questions. "I was meeting someone," she mumbled. "I mean, my servant… I was looking…"

Beckett cut her off. "I think," he said evenly, "That you are lying."

Victoria was too much in pain and too afraid to care. "Must we do this now?" she demanded. "I was only moments ago attacked by ruffians, with my life and maiden innocence threatened -"

"Your 'maiden innocence' is no longer intact, so please do not pretend that it is," Beckett said flatly. Victoria gaped at him, stunned that he would say such a thing (and even more stunned because it was true), but he continued talking as though her facial expression had not changed in the slightest. "But I suppose it _is_ unfair of me to press my advantage at such a time."

Victoria made an attempt to pull back from him but found his arm wrapped rather tightly around her. "When speaking of fairness, I should hardly ask you to be its judge," she snapped. "Please let me go."

Beckett made no effort to comply. "Considering your tendency to dismiss every nobleman you meet after knowing him for approximately fifteen minutes, I should hardly ask you to judge what is fair and what isn't, either," he replied.

"Lord Beckett -!" She struggled slightly more against his grip on her, then gave in, leaning into him more than she'd intended to. He smiled triumphantly and inched her closer.

"Maybe this will teach you not visit this place so often," he said evenly. "It's not the fairy-tale world you make it out to be."

She glanced sharply upward at him. "What makes you think I visit this place regularly?" she whispered.

He lifted his other hand and gently massaged her throat where angry red marks had appeared. "That's going to bruise," he said with a concerned frown. "If I had any water I'd - "

"You're evading my question," Victoria said crossly.

He smiled. "I have my sources," he said simply.

She shuddered. "Do you spy on everyone in London?" she asked frigidly.

"Only those important enough to merit such attention."

"You consider me important enough to merit your spy network and your total invasion of my life?"

His smile turned merciless and frightening. "Oh, Tori," he said in a deathly quiet voice, "You haven't any idea what a total invasion of your life is like. Not yet."

Her blood ran cold. "What -?" she started, but he cut her off.

"I should like to call on you tomorrow," he said casually, "To see how you're faring."

Victoria glared suspiciously at him. "Don't you have spies who will find out how I am for you?"

"I'd like to see you myself," he said. "I don't trust the care of those dearest to my heart to other people."

"Dearest to your heart?" Victoria repeated disbelievingly. "I don't believe you are even in possession of a heart!"

He turned a sharp stare on her, and she cowered back slightly. "Another harsh judgment made far too quickly," he said softly. "Why is it that you'll trust pirates and the like, but never those equal to you in station and intellect? You're quite clever in all other regards, yet your romantic fantasies keep you from those who truly deserve you."

"The aristocracy is full of wicked and greedy people," Victoria said flatly.

"As are the pirates," Beckett retorted. "It isn't as simple as you make it; nothing is set in black and white, Victoria."

"Miss Thorne to you," she fired back. "We are _not_ on first-name terms."

Beckett's eyes hardened. "Very well, Miss Thorne," he said icily. He released her and she pulled back, leaning instead against the wall of the carriage for support. She suddenly felt very cold. Shivering, she tugged his coat more tightly around her shoulders and hugged herself.

They sat in silence the rest of the ride to her home. Beckett's thoughts remained his own, but Victoria's were more apparent. She was torn between pride in her ability to verbally fence with Beckett and shame that she'd been so rude to the man who'd rescued her. Well, it was really _Mercer_ who'd saved her… and besides, Beckett was a pirate hunter and therefore a terrible person. And yet…

The argument raged in her head up until the moment they approached the mansion where her family lived. She was so relieved to see home that the instant the carriage stopped, she pushed open the door and leapt out. She almost ran inside, but forced herself to pause. Whatever she thought of Beckett's politics… well, he'd still saved her. She turned to the still open carriage door and saw Beckett watching her. She bit her lip in embarrassment and made an attempt to smooth things over. "Cutler - "

"Was it not you," he interrupted coldly, "Who said that we were not on first name terms?"

Victoria recoiled at the aloofness of his tone. Her expression and resolution hardened, and instead of thanking him she shrugged off his coat and held it out to him. "I believe this is yours, my Lord," she said.

He met her eyes without flinching. "The night is cold, Miss Thorne," he said stiffly. "Keep it."

Mercer jumped down from his position on the carriage and shut the door before the conversation could turn ugly - or, rather, uglier. He turned to Victoria and bowed slightly. "Miss Thorne," he said politely.

She smiled with surprising warmth and hugged him. He held himself stiffly with surprise - after all, it wasn't every day that young women approached him and embraced him. "Thank you," she said with a small smile, "For saving my life."

"Erm… you're welcome," he said, coughing slightly in embarrassment. "I suggest you be more cautious next time."

She nodded her agreement and then turned and fled into the house.

- - - - - - - - -

Beckett watched Victoria run up the walkway into her home, his frock coat still slung over her arm and her disheveled golden hair tumbling down messily from what had been a previously elegant knot atop her head. He managed to catch a glimpse of the door hurriedly opening and a maid rushing Victoria inside before the carriage jolted and began to move forward, leaving the Thorne mansion behind.

_Willful, stubborn, insolent little wench,_ Beckett inwardly snarled. His fingers clenched into a fist and then unclenched again as he replayed her words in his head. There were times when he felt that fighting her wasn't at all worth it. But if not her, then who else to pursue for the position of Lady Beckett? There were scores of other women he could have if he chose, but they did not remotely interest him. They were plain and dull and faded into woodwork, women of no spirit and no character - undeserving of his attention.

And, for all her obstinacy, for all her harsh words and her rebellious ways, Victoria made some part of him burn with a fire he'd not felt before. He _had_ to have her, _had_ to tame her and claim her as his; he couldn't stand the thought of some other lord winning her and flaunting her at every opportunity. That should be _his_ honor.

Of course, he thought with the tiniest of smiles, none of the other noblemen had proven themselves capable of handling her. They gave in far too easily. They were interested in easy prey; they wanted women with no spark of life, women who were docile and easy and who would not cause trouble. Mediocrity suited the other lords, but Beckett sought something _extraordinary_.

And, damn it all, once he'd set himself to a goal he'd never failed to achieve it before. If not for her, then for the sake of the goal itself, he would have her.

There were more difficulties to overcome than he'd expected, of course. There was the pirate lover, for one; and Victoria's own willfulness was a huge problem in and of itself. But, Beckett reflected as he lifted a stack of death warrants for accused pirates, Victoria's wild soul could easily be tamed, if that which fed her wildness was taken from her…

The pirate, first and foremost, would have to go. No, not simply the pirate lover - the _Blind Beggar_ and all its patrons. It was impossible for Beckett to order the destruction of an entire tavern's population - he was powerful, but he could not reasonably wipe out the entire inn. Nor would it be prudent to do so - as he understood it, many of Mercer's contacts resided and worked at the _Blind Beggar_. Some of Beckett's most useful information had been passed to Mercer via the whores and other filth of that place. The pirate lover could be arrested, killed, threatened at the very least - but if Beckett was to keep Victoria away from the influences on which she thrived, he would have to find some way to imprison her.

He was deep in thought, frowning down at his hands, when the carriage stopped abruptly before his house. He was so involved that he didn't even notice until Mercer opened the door. "Sir?" Mercer said hesitantly.

Beckett hardly glanced at his clerk. "What would you say was the nature of Victoria's attackers?" he asked.

Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Just the usual ruffians roaming the streets, I should think," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

Beckett leaned back in the carriage seat, still pondering. "Victoria mentioned that she was searching for a servant," he said. "I know that wasn't all she was doing - you mentioned a pirate lover before, yes?"

"Orson Shaw," Mercer supplied.

"Orson Shaw," Beckett repeated, saying the name slowly, as though he were considering it closely. "Gather information on him for me. I'd like to know all I can about my opponent. But about the servant…"

"When Orson was showing her out of the tavern he mentioned something about a servant," Mercer said. "Told her the servant would doubtless be waiting in the usual place to escort her home. I'm assuming 'the usual place' was in the street before the alley in which she was attacked."

"You saw no sign of such a servant?" Beckett questioned.

"No sign, sir."

"Then she must have left him," Beckett said with mock concern. "It would most certainly be a shame if something were to happen to him."

Mercer raised both eyebrows this time. "Shall I take that to mean that something _should_ happen, sir?" he asked.

Beckett considered a moment longer, then smiled coldly and nodded. "I want this little incident to look less like an 'incident' and more like a full-scale assault on the Thornes," he said, turning sharp eyes to Mercer's. Mercer met his gaze unflinchingly. "If someone is attacking the Thornes, then they shall need to be guarded. And our darling Victoria being the most likely target, as young as she is and being a woman - "

"- Will need to be protected with greater force than the rest," Mercer said with a dark grin. "Brilliant."

"I know," Beckett said absently, his thoughts still working on evolving his plan. He withdrew from his reverie and glanced meaningfully at Mercer. "From tomorrow onward, you shall be Victoria's personal guard," he said. "Wherever she goes, you will follow. You are not to let her out of your sight unless I expressly command it or you know for certain that she is with me. If she manages to slip past your safeguards, then God have mercy on you - for, rest assured, I will not."

He had nothing more to say on the subject, so he leapt from the carriage and walked swiftly into his house, leaving Mercer behind to do his shadowy work.

- - - - - - - - -

"Miss Victoria!" Eleanor Fennell whispered joyfully as Victoria pushed open the door and slipped silently into her house. "I was so worried about you! I'm so happy you've returned safely!"

Victoria forced a smile and murmured, "Thank you." Eleanor, who was Victoria's maid and one of her close friends, noted with surprise and concern that her mistress raised one hand to massage her throat.

Eleanor chewed on her lip nervously. "I hate it that you slip out like this," she scolded - but quietly, so as not to wake anyone else. "You worry me sick." She glanced at the window and noticed the carriage departing from the front of the house. "I assume that's not your Orson's carriage," she said dryly.

"Lord Beckett's," Victoria said, a distinctly chilly edge coming into her voice. "He was in the area and brought me home."

Eleanor was glad it was dark, for she flushed deeply at those words. It was she who had alerted Mr. Mercer to Victoria's departure - not because she wished to betray her mistress, of course, nothing of the sort. Eleanor had been in London's darker streets, had seen and interacted with the people there, and she was fearful that one day her beloved Victoria might fall prey to some sinister criminal. So she'd run to Beckett's mansion, had called for Mercer, just as he'd told her she could. She'd gasped out that Victoria had gone to visit her friends at the _Blind Beggar_ (she kept mum about Orson's existence), and could he please in the name of all that was holy ensure Victoria was safe?

Beckett, surprisingly, had overheard the conversation and had been the one to assure her that Miss Thorne would come to no harm. He'd promised to see to it she was brought home safely, with no damage done. Such a gentleman, he was…

He'd warned her not to mention to Victoria that she'd come to him. He told her Victoria would probably send her away, and a new, more apathetic maid would take her place. Eleanor was a good woman and a good friend, and she wouldn't see harm befall Victoria because some lazy, no good maid had replaced her. She swore she'd say not a word.

"Well, Lord Beckett's a gentleman and no mistake," Eleanor said finally.

"He's no gentleman," Victoria spat. "He's heartless and vindictive and cruel, and I'd sooner die than see him again."

"Hard words, Tori," Eleanor said softly, smoothing back some of Victoria's golden hair. "Mayhap you should give one of these nobles a chance someday, instead of despising them for the circumstances in which they were born."

"Were I ever to open my heart to a noble, it would never be Beckett," Victoria said firmly. She started to go up to bed, but Eleanor abruptly noticed the angry red marks on her neck.

"Miss Victoria!" she gasped. "What happened?"

Victoria's hands flew to her neck. "Nothing!" she denied. "Nothing, I just - "

Eleanor pulled her hands away and stared at the marks. "Someone tried to strangle you!" she cried. "I can tell! These are the marks of fingers!"

"Eleanor, hush, you'll wake the whole bloody house - " Victoria hissed.

"What's going on?" Victoria's youngest brother, Edmond, appeared at the top of the steps, wrapped in a robe. "Tori?"

"Everything's fine, Eddie," Victoria said forcefully, but Eleanor turned entreatingly to him.

"Oh please, sir, somebody's tried to strangle Miss Victoria!" she cried. She turned back to Victoria and laid soothing fingers on the marks. "He promised he'd get you home safely…" she whispered.

"What?" Victoria said sharply, but Eleanor was spared being forced to answer. Edmond had come down the stairs and was now clinically studying Victoria's neck.

"Bloody hell, Tori, somebody _did_ try to strangle you!" he said furiously. "What happened?"

"It wasn't Beckett, was it?" Eleanor cried, stricken.

"Oh, dear God," Victoria sighed, burying her face in her hands. "No, it wasn't Beckett, much as I wish I could lay the crime at his feet."

"What's Lord Beckett got to do with all this?" Edmond demanded.

"Miss Victoria crept out tonight, sir," Eleanor blurted out. "I tried to stop her but she said she had to go. Lord Beckett brought her back, but someone must have hurt her while she was out!"

Edmond stared penetratingly at Victoria. "Well, Tori?" he asked. "Is that true?"

Victoria was now staring despondently upwards. The commotion had called another servant from bed, and he'd made his way to the master's bedroom to wake him. Now, Victoria's entire family was rushing hurriedly down the steps.

"What's happened?" her father asked sternly.

Neither Eleanor nor Edmond spoke. Victoria sighed miserably and said, "I was attacked by four men on a darkened street. Lord Beckett was on his way back to his home, but his carriage broke a wheel in the vicinity of my attack. On his way back to the carriage, Beckett's clerk Mercer overheard my attackers and rescued me from them. Then Beckett brought me home. He says he plans to visit tomorrow to see how I am."

"What in God's name were you doing out of the house at this hour?" her father demanded. "And where were you?"

Here Victoria remained stubbornly silent. Benedict Thorne awaited an answer, then turned his eyes to Eleanor. But Eleanor, too, remained silent. She couldn't quite bring herself to reveal the existence of Victoria's pirate lover. That knowledge was sacred, somehow - to reveal it would be to destroy all of Victoria's hopes and dreams.

Their silence, where it might have angered a different man, made Benedict Thorne sigh. "Go upstairs to bed," he ordered. "We'll send for a physician in the morning to make certain you've not been too badly hurt. You should be thanking God that you survived such an experience, Victoria, and I can only pray you will not be so foolish as to run off into the night again."

Victoria curtsied slightly and then pushed her way past her mother and two older brothers. Eleanor rushed hurriedly after her, hoping to soothe her, but Victoria reached her bedroom and slammed the door shut before she could get there.

Eleanor hung her head and shamefacedly returned to her own small room, where she spent the night pacing and worrying for Victoria's health, and wondering if anything she'd done had been right at all.


	3. Running From Chaperones

When the morning arrived, so too did Lord Beckett.

Mr. Benedict Thorne was glad to see him, and slightly intimidated. Although Benedict was a wealthy and well-respected merchant, and a tall, dark man not to be trifled with, Lord Beckett had a certain aura about him that made the Thorne elder cower back. Beckett was possessed of incredible self-assurance and a vicious tenacity that gave no quarter. Benedict knew he most certainly did not want to get in Beckett's way, lest he lose all that he had worked so hard to build with his family.

Despite his intimidation, he was nonetheless most grateful that Beckett had come as he had promised Victoria he would, and so promptly. He was even more grateful that Beckett immediately alerted him to the events of the previous night.

"Mr. Thorne," Beckett had said the instant he walked in the door, inclining his head respectfully. As he spoke, he swept off his cape with one smooth motion and handed it to the butler. "I am uncertain as to how aware you are of events that occurred last night, but - forgive me if I alarm you - your daughter was attacked."

"I am indeed aware of it," Benedict said with a grim nod, motioning for Beckett to follow him into his office. "Her maid made quite a fuss last night when she returned and woke us all. It appears to us that someone tried to strangle her."

"So I was told," Beckett said with a short nod. Benedict closed the door and motioned for Beckett to sit on one side of a large oaken desk. Beckett did so, and Benedict followed suit, dropping into a chair on the opposite side. "According to Miss Thorne, she had noted that one of her servants was missing and went out to search for him," Beckett continued. "Her search led her to one of the more unsavory parts of London, and while there, four men dragged her into an alley. The largest of the group was apparently trying to force her to reveal the location of her money by strangling her - hence the marks on her neck. Fortunately, before they could harm her in any other regard my clerk, Mr. Mercer, took the four men by surprise and killed them - a regrettable but necessary action in order to rescue her."

"You needn't apologize for their deaths," Benedict said darkly. "_I_ do not regret them."

Beckett smiled slightly, but the smile quickly evaporated. "Mr. Mercer brought Miss Thorne back to my carriage and I escorted her home," he concluded. "I promised to return today to see how she was faring. I didn't wish to potentially leave her unattended, should her injuries be greater than they appear." He motioned to a man who had followed him in. "This is Dr. Eddows," he said. "He is one of the East India Trading Company's finest physicians. If you don't mind, I'd like to have him examine Miss Thorne."

"Please do," Benedict said fervently. "We were about to send for a physician ourselves when you arrived."

Beckett waved the physician away, and the man left, following one of the Thorne servants out. "There is graver news to discuss, I'm afraid," Beckett said quietly.

Benedict frowned. "What's happened?" he asked.

Beckett stared ponderously at Benedict's desk. "As I was on my way home I recalled Victoria's - Miss Thorne's - words about her servant," he said, correcting himself quickly when he spoke her given name.

"It's hardly necessary for you to call her 'Miss Thorne,' Lord Beckett," Benedict assured him. "You've done a great deal for her in a very short space of time. I assure you, she won't object."

Beckett's lips twitched into an involuntary smile. "I'm afraid, knowing Victoria, that she most certainly will," he said ruefully.

Benedict sighed and confessed, "You're probably right. But at least with me the title is not necessary."

Beckett inclined his head in thanks and then continued. "I sent Mr. Mercer in search of Victoria's servant," he said. "He returned quite early this morning with a body bloodied and beaten beyond recognition. He was, however, carrying this." Beckett dropped a bloodied purse onto the desk. Benedict reached for it with growing trepidation and emptied its contents out. There was a little money, a slip of paper with an address, and two small, painted portraits of a man and woman.

"These belonged to our stable boy, Thomas," Benedict sighed regretfully. "These portraits are of his parents. They sent him here seven years ago when he was nine, hoping he would lead a better life." He glanced up at Beckett. "Two attacks on the same night… at least one survived."

"She was fortunate," Beckett said darkly. "I don't think she was intended to survive at all."

"Intended?" Benedict repeated.

Beckett hesitated, as though unsure how to word what he would say next. "Mr. Thorne," he said finally, "It is my belief that the death of your stable boy was to serve as a warning - and the death of Victoria was meant as a direct assault on your family."

"Our family?" Benedict said, hands clenching at his sides. "You think someone is intentionally targeting us?"

"I'm afraid so," Beckett said. "There is a ring of pirates seeking vengeance on all those who've betrayed them before. Your eldest son, Byron, as you know, was not long ago instrumental in the downfall of several very dangerous pirates. They wished to sell him some valuable items, but instead of purchasing them, he set up a meeting place and then led the East India Trading Company's soldiers there to arrest the pirates. All of the men were captured, and all were hanged."

Benedict recalled the event and nodded shortly. He'd been so proud of Byron then… so proud that his son was doing such great work for the Company. And Byron had been proud, too. It had never occurred to either to fear for their family. "These pirates are seeking to avenge the deaths of their companions by killing Byron's family, then?"

"So it would seem," Beckett said. He studied Benedict's face concernedly. "I'm sorry to bring you such dark news, but I felt it could not wait. Miss Thorne's safety has already been compromised; it won't be long before they try again."

Benedict buried his head in his hands. "What do you suggest we do?" he said quietly. "We've no way to protect ourselves against pirates."

Beckett leaned forward eagerly. "I believe I can convince the Company to lend you a few soldiers - a personal family guard, if you will - until this mess is over," he said. "I doubt they will object to such a proposal. Byron has been invaluable to our efforts in fighting piracy and smuggling on the high seas, and you have always been a most faithful merchant."

Benedict looked up at Beckett thankfully. "If it isn't too much trouble," he said gratefully, "We would be most happy to accept your protection."

"It is given freely and happily," Beckett said simply. He rose from his chair and said politely, "If I may, I'd like to see Miss Thorne."

Benedict nodded. "Of course," he said. He turned and called, "Eleanor!"

Eleanor bustled into his study and paused in the door to curtsy.

"Take Lord Beckett to Victoria's room," he said. "Please see to it that she holds her tongue."

Eleanor frowned slightly. "I'll see what I can do, sir," she said, "But she rarely listens to me."

"She rarely listens to anyone," Benedict said in exasperation. "Thank you, Lord Beckett, for your warnings and your assistance. They are appreciated more than you realize."

Beckett nodded slightly in acceptance of the praise, bid Benedict farewell, and then followed Eleanor out of the door.

- - - - - - - - -

When Victoria had awoken that morning, her throat had ached in the most awful way, and the flesh where her assailant's fingers had dug in was tender to the touch. That in and of itself would have made her day terrible, but her mother had decided that the morning was the opportune moment for a lengthy lecture. Mrs. Charlotte Thorne had come in and scolded her thoroughly about running away, and had informed her that she would be locking the bedroom windows every night as well as the door so that Victoria could not escape again. Just as Victoria began to think that perhaps - just perhaps - she might finally escape the torturous lecture, a strange and surly physician had entered - without knocking - and begun to examine her despite her furious protests. Victoria had thought her morning could not possibly be worse.

Victoria had been mistaken.

In the midst of the examination and all her protestations, she happened to glance at the doorway and saw Beckett standing there with his typical smirk on his face. He was watching her with great amusement, and his eyes locked with hers immediately when she noticed him.

"Miss Thorne," he said politely, but there was a touch of mocking in his voice.

Victoria drew in a sharp breath and dove over the side of her bed for a robe. She was of course dressed in a chemise, but it was hardly appropriate for any man - besides Orson, of course - to be seeing her in her nightclothes. And, after all, the chemise was rather thin and clung to her body in ways that promised much to whomever might be viewing her. "I don't suppose," she said icily, once her robe was tugged firmly over her chemise, "That you've ever heard of the concept of knocking."

"I _did_ knock," he said, stepping into the bedroom, "But I'm afraid your shrieks of protest to Dr. Eddows prevented you from hearing me."

Victoria frowned and sank further back into the pillows while Dr. Eddows lightly touched his fingers to her throat. She flinched as he came to a tender spot. "What are you doing here?" she asked Beckett sullenly.

"Visiting you as I promised I would," Beckett replied, arching a brow. "Did you forget so soon that I told you I would stop by to ensure you were healthy? How are you feeling this morning?"

"Bloody awful," Victoria said bluntly. Dr. Eddows looked terribly offended to hear such language from a lady, but Beckett merely smiled.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "Your attacker was rather violent."

"You wouldn't know," Victoria snapped. "You were cowering in your carriage while Mercer went out and did your dirty work."

Beckett shrugged. "Such is the privilege of wealth and prestige," he said simply. "There's always someone else to do your work for you."

Irritated that she hadn't been able to anger him with her remark on his cowardice, Victoria huffed and settled back into her pillow, frowning petulantly at her covers. "I trust you won't be staying long?" she said finally, her voice haughty.

"I've many more important appointments, to be sure, but I will cancel them all in favor of remaining here and admiring you," Beckett replied smoothly.

Victoria bristled. "First of all, if you intend to court me - as indeed seems to be your aim - don't you _dare_ tell me that your business meetings are more important than I am!" she cried. "Secondly, if you think you can sit here and 'admire' me as though I were some pretty ornament you were considering for purchase, I advise you to reassess your plans for today. I am _not_ a rich man's bauble, nor will I play one merely because you wish me to!"

Her tirade didn't offset Beckett in the slightest. "My goodness, Miss Thorne, you _are_ in a foul temper today," he said sardonically. "Why so out of sorts?"

"Because you have the nerve to be standing in my doorway staring at me at this ungodly hour of the morning!" she shouted.

"It's nearly ten o' clock," Beckett informed her. "You should have been out of bed and dressed hours ago. But we shall forgive you such indolence, as you were out late last night and suffered much."

"I should say so," Victoria huffed. "I had to spend at _least_ an hour with you."

"Believe me, my dear, it was as difficult for me as it was for you," Beckett said dryly. "Why I should continue to pursue you is quite beyond me."

"Then cease your pursuit and find worthier prey," Victoria advised with a glare. "I have no interest in marrying you and you yourself have just admitted you have no idea why you'd wish to marry me."

"I don't understand it, but that does not mean I don't want it," Beckett replied. "If I did not desire you, then I would not be here. Of course, it's doubtful you would be here, either, because you'd most likely be dead."

"What, Mercer wouldn't have saved any innocent aristocratic lady about to be raped on the streets?" Victoria questioned bitingly.

"I highly doubt he would," Beckett said with brutal honesty, "Nor would I command him to."

"You're a terrible man," Victoria said with a nasty glare.

Dr. Eddows coughed. "Please, Miss Thorne, if you wouldn't mind holding still…?" he said.

"I _would_ mind!" she snapped, turning her ferocious gaze on him. "I did not ask you to come here in the first place, and I can hardly be expected to trust you because _he_ brought you!"

Dr. Eddows stepped back, looking utterly affronted. "Lord Beckett," he said icily. "I cannot examine this patient; she is insolent and spoiled and will not listen to a word I say."

"Very well, Dr. Eddows, you may go," Beckett said loftily, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. As soon as the doctor had stepped from the room, he added with a grin, "I have a bit of medical education myself; _I_ can examine you."

"What?" Victoria shrieked, scampering back across the cushions until she was effectively smashed against her headboard.

Beckett took several steps closer to her. "What?" he mocked. "You wouldn't prefer someone familiar making certain you've no further damage? You could have broken several ribs, you know; there may be other cuts and gashes that went unnoticed in the dark; and coupled with the state of shock that you doubtlessly were in after your attack…"

"I'm sure Dr. Eddows knows far more about the medical practice than you," Victoria said shrilly.

"I'm sure he does," Beckett said with a grin, "But you've just sent him away."

"You're Lord Beckett!" Victoria snapped. "Surely it is within your power to bring him back!"

"Can I trust you to behave reasonably for him, then?" Beckett questioned. "I suppose I cannot ask such favors for myself, but you can at least be civil to a stranger who is merely attempting to aid you, can you not?"

Victoria flushed a little, embarrassed by her childish and petulant behavior. "Yes," she said, bowing her head shamefacedly. Beckett was reminded of a child ashamedly considering her ill manners after a lecture from her parents.

"Very well," he said, and had Victoria looked up she would have noticed his triumphant grin. He turned and walked back out the door. "Dr. Eddows!" he shouted.

The doctor, who had just approached the door, paused at the base of the stairs. "Yes, Lord Beckett?" he called.

"Miss Thorne has agreed to be reasonable, if you could finish your examination."

The doctor heaved a great sigh and marched up the stairs, his cloak now slung over his arm and his hat in one hand. He grumbled something about ill-tempered young ladies as he walked past Beckett and into the room.

Victoria was passive and silent through the entire examination, doing exactly as Dr. Eddows asked without complaint. Victoria's mother, Charlotte, even came upstairs fearing that her daughter might have fallen unconscious because of her sudden quiet. She gaped in amazement at her daughter's soundless acceptance of the doctor's requests.

"Well, I've no idea how you calmed her, Lord Beckett," Charlotte said at last, "But you must know her quite well if you can make her behave so decently."

Beckett chuckled. "Victoria and I are not entirely unalike, Mrs. Thorne," he said simply. "I know her as I know myself."

"Indeed," Mrs. Thorne said, a look of great interest coming into her eyes. Beckett noted the glint of greed; if her daughter were to marry him, Mrs. Thorne would be the mother of one of the wealthiest and most respected ladies in the empire. "With such a connection between you, it would be most regrettable if you were not able to see her often," Mrs. Thorne said casually, carefully. "Perhaps you might stop by for tea a few days a week?"

Beckett was no longer really listening to her speak. He was watching Victoria and savoring his small victory - the hard-won silence and obedience she showed to Dr. Eddows. Although he wasn't really listening, his mind could guess at what Mrs. Thorne had said. "Yes, I'd very much like that," he said absently as Victoria glanced over at him. He smiled at her, and her green eyes turned to ice as she promptly turned away.

"Lovely," Mrs. Thorne said gleefully. "Shall we expect you on Thursday, then?"

"Yes," Beckett said. "Please do."

Mrs. Thorne looked like she might wish to say more, but Beckett didn't notice; he was still watching Victoria, who was now blatantly ignoring him. Mrs. Thorne coughed a little, curtsied, and then moved back down the hall, a small smile on her face.

A few moments later, Dr. Eddows had completed his examination. "She's in good health, other than the throat, of course," he said, directing his comments to who he believed to be the authority in the room - Lord Beckett. "The throat's going to bruise, which I don't suppose will please a young lady with many social occasions to attend, but it will make an exciting story. If she doesn't wish the bruises to be exposed, advise her to wear a large necklace of some variety; that should cover it."

"Advise her yourself," Beckett said a bit coldly. "She's right beside you, after all."

Dr. Eddows looked taken aback as he glanced at Victoria, who was glaring moodily at him. He coughed in embarrassment. "My apologies, Miss Thorne," he murmured. "The bruises - "

"I have several necklaces that ought to suit the purpose, thank you," she said frigidly. "And I don't think I shall be going out for awhile, anyway."

"Such an experience would, I suppose, be damaging to a delicate young woman's mental stability," the doctor said sympathetically.

The comment raised Victoria's ire even further. "I meant," she said angrily, "That I highly doubt my parents will be permitting me to leave the house for a considerable period; if it were for me to decide, I would be going out again tonight."

The doctor looked stunned by Victoria's impertinence and turned to Beckett for support. Beckett, however, was watching Victoria with a small but approving smile. Dr. Eddows bit his lip and turned back to Victoria. "If you should need any further assistance, I should be most glad -"

"Thank you kindly, Dr. Eddows, but I highly doubt I shall be needing you again," Victoria said curtly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. You may go now."

Dr. Eddows clearly did not appreciate being ordered about by a woman. He turned to Lord Beckett and said with forced calm, "If you've no further need of me, my Lord, I have other patients to attend to."

"I believe Miss Thorne told you that you could go," Beckett said, raising his eyebrows.

The doctor pursed his lips, but bowed politely and left.

As soon as he was gone, Victoria said indignantly, "Self-righteous, terrible, stuck up little bastard!" She tossed back her covers and called, "Eleanor!"

Eleanor peeked into the bedroom from the bathroom next door. "Yes, Miss Victoria?" she said. She caught sight of Beckett and gasped in surprise. "You're not decent!" she cried to Victoria.

"Lord Beckett doesn't seem to mind," Victoria said wryly. "But I _do_ need to dress, I'm afraid. I'm not suited for company, doubtless because of its unwelcome presence here." She glanced maliciously at Beckett.

Beckett bowed mockingly to her. "I shall see you in the gardens when you are dressed then, Miss Thorne?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Victoria replied. She waved a hand in the same dismissive gesture he had used with the doctor. "You may go."

Most lords would have been outraged at such behavior; Beckett merely laughed. "Don't take too long, Miss Thorne," he advised, "Or I shall be forced to come up and check your progress."

Before she could retort, he had slipped out the door and closed it.

- - - - - - - - -

Beckett heard Victoria's skirts sweeping across the grass before he saw her. He turned to face her and smiled broadly; despite her claims that he was most unwelcome, she had clearly chosen a dress that she knew would please him – a deep blue gown embroidered with delicate silver flowers and that possessed a neckline plunged scandalously low. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "You look absolutely radiant, Victoria," he said sincerely.

"And you," Victoria said sullenly, "Are an insolent, selfish, manipulating bastard."

"Why, Victoria, I've rarely heard you be so complimentary," he said cheekily. "I see you're enjoying the pearls."

Victoria grabbed defensively at the strand of pearls she had wrapped several times around her neck, effectively hiding whatever marks had begun to appear on her throat. "It would seem such a waste to leave them sitting in a jewelry box," she mumbled. "I didn't choose them because they were a gift from you."

"Of course," Beckett said in amusement. He offered her his arm, and with some hesitation and a nasty glare from her mother, she took it.

"My mother came up to my room and lectured me about the importance of finding an appropriately wealthy husband while I was dressing," she said broodingly. "I don't suppose she was referring to you, was she?"

"I wouldn't know," Beckett said simply. "She does seem quite interested in a match between us - since she's invited me to tea on Thursday."

"What?" Victoria exclaimed, her head whipping around so she could stare at him. "Surely you have more important things to do?"

"Than woo a beautiful a woman? Hardly, my dear," he said. "After all, nothing is as important as you. Or don't you remember? You told me so yourself not a half-hour previously during your examination."

Victoria frowned and turned away again. "I shall have to watch my tongue if every word I say is to be flung back in my face," she said.

Beckett laughed. "You, watch your tongue?" he repeated. "When pigs fly, Victoria."

"Regrettably, you're most likely correct," Victoria said, the smallest of smiles creeping onto her face. She quashed it as quickly as possible in the hopes that he wouldn't notice it. She glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who was following at a safe distance. "Why does she insist on lurking in the background?" she hissed.

"Chaperone, Miss Thorne. It's required," Beckett reminded her.

"Oh, please," Victoria snorted. "Rumor has it that the last woman you wooed mysteriously managed to lose her chaperone whenever you were present."

"A small feat," Beckett replied, "And easily done - but hardly necessary at the moment. I doubt, even if I were to find you alone, that you would be interested in doing anything other than insulting me."

Victoria flushed deeply at this, but pulled out her fan and used it to block her face, to keep Beckett from noticing. He noticed anyway. "Or perhaps not," he murmured with a grin.

"Pig," she said spitefully to him, snapping her fan shut. After a moment of silence, she asked, "What happened with the other girl? Why didn't you marry her?"

Beckett looked immensely pained. "She died," he said quietly. "A… a terrible accident."

Victoria looked surprised. "I'm… sorry," she said, a little embarrassed to have brought up such a difficult subject. "I didn't realize…"

"Relatively few people do," Beckett said flatly. "Please don't question any further."

Victoria bit her lip and looked away nervously. The awkward pause expanded between them, trying to separate them. That was the moment that Mercer appeared by a tree.

"Mr. -!" Victoria started to exclaim, but Beckett suddenly gripped her wrist so tightly that she gasped sharply in pain. "What?" she snapped in an injured tone of voice.

"Don't make Mercer's presence known to your mother," Beckett advised.

Victoria stared at him. "Why?" she whispered. "What are you -?"

Before she could ask, she heard someone call, "Mrs. Thorne!" She turned and saw a servant speaking urgently with her mother. She started to lean back, trying to catch a word of what they were saying, but Beckett grabbed her arm and jerked her abruptly to the right. She was so surprised that she followed without resistance into the depths of the family garden, which was perfectly manicured and beautifully organized. Beckett led her to an orchard surrounded by a large wall and tugged her inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Ah," Victoria said, sliding her arm from his and dropping down onto a small stone bench. "_That's_ how you escape, is it? I take it Mr. Mercer caused a ruckus somewhere and made the servant nervous; or perhaps he paid off the servant if he would just distract my mother?"

"As I said: quite simple." Beckett sat beside her on the bench. "I have a great deal of experience in such matters."

"In running from chaperones?" Victoria said in amusement. "They must be terrified of having you about."

"I suspect they are," he said with a wry smile. "But I grow rather weary of chaperones. They always interfere with what I want."

"Dare I ask how often you've taken what you wanted from the girl you were wooing?" Victoria questioned impertinently.

He gave her a look. "It never goes so far," he said, almost regretfully. "No woman is willing to sully her reputation in such a way - except, of course, for you."

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "I think I should be insulted that you would say such a thing of me," she said.

"Oh, Tori, don't play at being so proper," Beckett snapped, and Victoria noted with interest his use of her pet name. "I know a great deal more about you than you realize."

Her head snapped in his direction. "You know about Orson," she gasped.

He smirked. "Yes, in fact, I do," he said evenly.

She gaped at him. "How did you -?"

"I have my ways." He reached over and caught her hand in his. Surprisingly, she didn't attempt to remove it. "Tori, something happened to your servant last night," he said carefully.

She gazed at him sharply. "Thomas?" she quavered. "Is he all right?"

Beckett looked directly into her eyes. "He's dead," he said simply.

She stared at him disbelief. Finally, she managed, "What happened?"

"He was… beaten beyond recognition." Beckett bit his lower lip as he studied her face. "We think that the same fate was intended for you," he informed her.

"Don't be daft," she snapped. "Thomas was just… in a terrible place. And so was I."

"Then why is it that two members of the Thorne household were attacked?" Beckett questioned. "It seems too coincidental to be true."

"Who would attack our family, anyway?" Victoria demanded. "We've done nothing to harm anyone."

"Your brother was involved in a highly effective arrest of many pirates, all of whom were hanged," Beckett informed her. "We think a gang of pirates is after his blood - and his family's first, yours in particular. Being the only daughter in a house full of men means that you are quite beloved. Killing you would be a devastating blow to all the Thornes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Victoria asked, eyes narrowing.

Beckett frowned slightly. This was not going to be easy. "Your father and I think it best that you be protected by some form of guard at all times," he said.

"_What_?"

"Victoria, it's the only way to make certain you're safe," Beckett said over the protestations already forming on her lips. "We can't have you continuously running off to God only knows where if someone is trying to kill you. You may not be as lucky next time you find yourself in such a difficult situation."

"You just want to keep me locked away from Orson," she spat.

He shrugged. "That is, of course, an added benefit for me," he admitted. "But it isn't the only reason I suggested such a solution."

"You suggested it?" Victoria said suspiciously. She snatched her hand away from his. "It still sounds to me like you're attempting to trap me."

Beckett sighed. "It's the only way to keep you safe," he said, "And that is all I want."

"Considering that you dragged me here without a chaperone to follow, that clearly isn't all you want," Victoria said disgustedly.

"No," Beckett murmured, "I suppose you're right in that regard." He stared down at her hand, still sitting close to his but bunched into a fist of anger. He considered attempting to take it again, but thought that would most likely be pushing his luck. "Since it was Mr. Mercer who saved your life before, it will be he who follows you as a sort of personal guard," Beckett said after a moment of silence. "He will always be nearby no matter where you go."

"This sounds like your threatened invasion of my life," Victoria said, her voice untrusting and cold.

Beckett frowned slightly; how to reassure her that such was not the case? He paused a moment longer, then tilted her chin up and kissed her.

It was a remarkably brave thing for him to do, considering Victoria's fierce nature and her violent hatred of him. She drew in a sharp breath and jerked away, her face flaming. Stubbornly, he shifted slightly and kissed her cheek. This was apparently less repulsive to her, as she didn't move away from him. However, she held herself stiffly and leaned away a little when he pulled back. He studied her reaction clinically while she obstinately refused to look at him. She stared instead at the ground, her eyes fixed resolutely on a specific blade of grass, as though written on it was the answer to all her problems.

Beckett sighed, disappointed in such a negative reaction but unsurprised. He turned her face towards him again, touched his lips to her forehead and breathed, "I'm only trying to protect the woman I love."

She said nothing to dispute the fact that he could love anyone, but she dropped her head and stared unseeing at the stone bench beneath them. He reached up and touched her cheek lightly with his fingers, and she shied away slightly. "I understand," she said, her voice low but angry. "I understand, but I do not accept it happily. By protecting what _you_ love, you will cut me off from all that _I_ love."

Beckett glared at her in frustration. "You could love this world, Tori, if you would only try," he told her.

"You may be right," Victoria replied, "But as of yet I'm not willing to try." She stood, brushed her skirts straight, and walked in a slow circle around the orchard alone. Beckett simply watched, not wishing to antagonize her further. She was being unusually docile today, whether because of her attack the previous night or for a different reason he could not say; that she had even allowed him to touch her was an improvement.

She was halfway around the tiny orchard when Mercer abruptly slipped in through the gate. "Mrs. Thorne's on her way," he informed Beckett.

Beckett nodded curtly, eyes still on Victoria. Mercer followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Not receptive?" he asked, although he didn't sound surprised.

"More receptive than I expected, but less so than I'd hoped," Beckett sighed. He glanced up at Mercer. "She's agreed to let you guard her, but she's not thrilled with the prospect."

"I'm not surprised." Mercer leaned against a tree and kept his eyes on Victoria as she walked. "I hear the doctor's visit was a nightmare."

Beckett chuckled. "Victoria is not a woman you wish to tangle with," he said admiringly, "Unless you are well prepared."

Victoria didn't turn her head, but said, "I can hear you, you know."

"Then why aren't you thanking me for the compliment?" Beckett asked.

She hid a smile behind her fan. "With me you are far too generous with your praise, and in all the wrong areas," she said. "Is that something that I should thank you for?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" Beckett asked.

She seemed prepared to answer, but the gate opened again and her mother slipped in. She was clearly out of breath. She leaned against the doorway and managed to say, "My goodness, I've been searching quite some time for the pair of you."

"My apologies, Mrs. Thorne," Beckett said smoothly, rising and helping her to the bench. "We weren't aware that you weren't with us until you were well out of sight. We stopped here in the hopes that you'd find us."

Mrs. Thorne shot her daughter a knowing look. "Quite the gentleman, isn't he, Victoria?" she said.

Victoria bit back a smile. "Oh, yes, mother," she said, a touch of irony noticeable in her voice. "_Quite_ a gentleman."

Beckett had trained himself to hide his expressions, so his smile remained an inward one. "Forgive me, Miss Victoria - Mrs. Thorne - but I'm afraid I must leave you," he said with a bow to each. "I have a meeting with some of the Company's most important investors."

"Oh, we'd hate for you to be late," Mrs. Thorne said with a frown. "But do be sure to return sometime soon. Thursday for tea?"

"Thank you very much for the invitation," Beckett said politely. "I will be here." He turned to Victoria and lifted her fingers to his lips. "Good day to you, Miss Thorne," he murmured. "I am most glad to see you safe and relatively unharmed. Let us hope that such remains the case."

Victoria glanced warily at him, aware of an inherent threat in those words, but he had already released her hand with another small bow and had turned to leave. Her hand fell and began to stroke the pearls around her neck as she watched him depart, and a great confusion began to arise in her as he disappeared.

"Miss Thorne," Mercer said, startling her. She threw a sharp look his way, and he inclined his head slightly. "My apologies for frightening you, Miss Thorne," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "You don't frighten me, Mr. Mercer," she informed him.

He grinned. "Forgive me my impertinence, but you would do well to be afraid," he warned. He nodded towards the house. "We should get you inside," he said. "I've been informed that a Miss Whitlock is coming to visit you today."

"Cat!" Victoria cried excitedly. "I had quite forgotten in the flurry of activity this morning… oh, yes, we must get in the house." In her joy at the thought of seeing Cat she also seemed to forget her propriety and who Mercer was. She grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the Thorne mansion. "Come on; you won't want to miss meeting Cat!" she beamed, and then she ran ahead of him.

_Of course_, Mercer though irritably as he loped after her. _The very last thing I want is to meet yet another snobbish little aristocratic lady…_

_- - - - - - - - -_

Mercer very quickly decided that he despised his new post, and he had barely been at it an hour.

Oh, it wasn't Miss Thorne's fault. Well, it wasn't _entirely _her fault. Even though in her excitement over her friend's visit an endless tide of words flowed freely from her lips, nothing she said was mindless prattle. Her observations on society and the aristocracy in particular were sharp, witty, interesting and accurate. He could have listened to her remarks about various lords and duchesses for hours, but unfortunately her excitement quickly waned. Once she had calmed herself her demeanor became frosty, and she ceased to speak to him. Occasionally she even shot him a nasty glare.

Finally, she asked, "Why is he having me guarded?"

Mercer knew exactly to whom she was referring and did not see the use in pretending that he didn't. "He is concerned for your safety," he said simply. "I would have thought he had made that clear to you."

He noted the surprising blush that rose quickly across Victoria's cheeks and silently wondered what exactly Beckett had done to convince her of his concern. He bit back a smile and continued to observe while Victoria tried to decide between two different bracelets.

"Forgive me if I doubt his motives, Mr. Mercer," she said after the blush had faded. "I suspect he has made a mountain out of molehill here – and not because he genuinely believes me to be in danger. He wants to keep me trapped in my house, doesn't he?"

Mercer shrugged. "It's an undeniable advantage when one takes into consideration your wild nature and your unfortunate love of the slums," he said. "But it's not the sole reason he guards you."

Victoria turned a piercing gaze to him. "Isn't it?" she said softly.

Mercer was not made uncomfortable by her stare, but her boldness surprised him. Most women glanced at him and hurriedly turned away; even the men he had met (save Beckett) could not long withstand looking directly at him. There was something in his glower, a maliciousness that frightened all who looked at him.

She hadn't lied when she'd told him she was not afraid.

The moment was broken when her maid, Eleanor, bustled into the room. A pretty girl, Eleanor would probably have attracted many prospects for a husband if she'd been wealthier – in fact, she looked startlingly akin to Victoria, with the same golden curls and a similar oval-shaped face. One of the distinctive differences was that Eleanor's eyes were a bright and clear blue; Victoria's were a radiant and intense green. Victoria's skin was also fashionably pale, lighter than Eleanor's by far; although she was a house servant, Eleanor saw more sun than Victoria did, and Victoria did much to protect herself from the sun's rays, anyway.

Unlike Victoria, Eleanor was clearly afraid of Mercer's presence. She glanced nervously in his direction as she moved to stand beside her beloved mistress. "Excited for Miss Whitlock's visit?" she asked. "I do so love her. She's a sweet girl, that."

Victoria visibly brightened at the mention of her friend. "Yes," she said with a small smile, "She is." She turned and held up the bracelets to Mercer. "The gold and sapphire bracelet, or this silver one with pearls?" she asked him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Miss Thorne, I am not accustomed to being asked which accessories would best suit a lady's outfit," he said.

"Well then, it seems advisable that you learn, as you are now to be the guardian of a young lady," Victoria said. Mercer caught an impish gleam in her eye that made him more than a little nervous. "This bracelet," she said, holding up the sapphire bangle, "Would suit my dress because of the blue jewels, which match the color of the fabric. And this one – " Here she held up the other bracelet. " – Would match the pearl necklace I'm currently wearing."

"I… see," Mercer said, glaring warily at her.

"So? Which is better?" she asked.

He looked between the two bracelets. "Neither will visibly enhance your current beauty, Miss Thorne, so I hardly see the point in wearing one at all," he said finally.

Victoria laughed merrily at this. "Men," she said with a dramatic sigh as she turned to Eleanor. "Which one, Eleanor?"

"The pearls, obviously," Eleanor said instantly. "Best to have the bracelet match the necklace. Besides, the dress has silver thread interwoven in it and the gold wouldn't match that."

Victoria smiled in satisfaction and slid the pearl and silver bracelet onto her wrist. "You won't be able to slip out of answering so easily next time," she warned Mercer, "So you'd best be observant as to what I wear."

Mercer stared daggers at her, which only made her smirk. Before she could continue explaining the feminine mode of dress to him, the butler made a most fortuitous appearance. "Miss Whitlock has arrived, Miss Thorne," he said with a stiff bow. "Shall I show her to the drawing room?"

"Yes, and tell her I'll be down shortly," Victoria said, practically leaping from her seat at the mirror. She strode quickly past Mercer, who turned and followed her almost immediately. "Cat will be more than a bit surprised that I have you as my shadow," she said over her shoulder. "I'll probably have to explain the whole miserable story to her."

"Does that trouble you, Miss Thorne?" Mercer asked. "It seems the sort of story young women delight in."

"Young women to whom such things have never happened," Victoria said, wrinkling her nose. "Cat is of a slightly more delicate constitution than me, however, and I imagine she will be horrified when I tell her."

"I imagine most ladies of your age and social class have a more delicate constitution than you and will most likely react similarly when word gets out," Mercer said dryly.

"Oh, I suspect many of them will be thrilled," Victoria said, a touch of anger in her voice. "Quite a few of them would like to see me brought down – particularly the ladies starving for Beckett's attention."

"Does that mean that every lady in the empire hates you right now?" Mercer said with a grin.

"Beckett isn't _that_ desirable," Victoria snorted. She paused in front of the drawing room door and caught the disbelieving look Mercer was giving her. "All right," she relented, "Perhaps he _is_ that desirable – but not to me."

"Which is precisely what makes _you_ so desirable to him," Mercer informed her. "Although if you try to change your colors now and begin fawning on him I suspect he will know it's all an act and will continue his pursuit anyway, albeit with considerably less hindrance."

Victoria huffed slightly and then turned and threw open the doors to the drawing room. "Cat!" she squealed delightedly, and she hurtled across the room and swept the young lady standing there into a very indelicate hug.

"Tori!" the young lady called Cat cried. "I haven't seen you for ages! How are you?"

"I've been better," Victoria said with a grimace. She motioned idly with one hand. "Cat, this is Mr. Mercer. He's my personal guard for the time being, so you ought to get to know him. He'll be spending rather a lot of time with us."

Catherine turned to face Mercer. She looked quite young and immensely innocent. She had wide, pale blue eyes and light brown hair that was elegantly upswept. Her face had an almost elfish quality to it – she appeared a delicate fairy sweeping magically through the mortal world. She was tiny in figure and in height – a touch shorter even than Victoria, who was quite small for a woman of seventeen years. She appeared the epitome of innocence.

Mercer coughed awkwardly and inclined his head slightly in greeting. He was not very comfortable around women, particularly well-bred ladies of great delicacy – and there could be no doubt that Catherine Whitlock was one such girl. She was dressed exactly according to the fashion of the time, with just the proper amount of jewelry and only the slightest peek at her skin. She curtsied deeply and elegantly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mercer," she said. Her voice was soft and well trained, demure to a degree that was almost painful.

Mercer said nothing in reply. He hadn't been brought up in society and didn't know how to address noble women, and he certainly didn't feel like making a fool of himself by trying.

Victoria raised an eyebrow but did not comment on his abrupt silence. "Lord Beckett's sent him to keep an eye on me," she explained to Catherine.

Catherine looked confused. "Why is Lord Beckett having you guarded?" she asked. "I know of his interest in you, of course; everyone does."

"Except Charlotta Harris," Mercer murmured.

Catherine laughed musically. "I suspect she sees only what she wants to see," she said with a shake of her head.

Mercer shrugged. "Miss Harris appears unusually dense to me," he said.

Victoria laughed, and Catherine stifled a giggle, as though this was a joke too inappropriate to bestow with her laughter. "I agree entirely, Mr. Mercer," Victoria said. She dropped into one of the chairs and motioned to the one opposite her for Catherine. "As to why Mercer is guarding me – well, it's a rather long story. Since Mercer had such an important part in it, perhaps he'd like to tell it?"

Mercer glanced sharply at Victoria, who was still smiling at him. Catherine looked like she was waiting expectantly for him to speak. "I'm afraid I'm no good at telling stories, Miss Thorne," he said after an awkward pause.

Victoria heaved a dramatic sigh. "Must I teach you everything you need to know about society?"

"No," he said curtly. "Besides, don't you feel I can learn by watching your… _outstanding_ example?"

The sarcasm was not lost on either of the two ladies. Victoria huffed, insulted, but she turned back to Catherine and left him alone – much to his relief. She related the story of her attack and her rescue to Catherine, who gasped and cried out in relief in all the right places. Victoria certainly was a good storyteller – even Mercer found himself caught in her words as she described the place and her attackers. He noted several discrepancies that made the story infinitely more dramatic – for instance, there were ten attackers instead of four – but otherwise she painted an accurate and exciting picture of her adventures.

She also explained, much more gravely, about the believed attacks on her family. She concluded by saying, "I think it's all rubbish. Pirates are too disorganized to go to all that trouble just to kill one man."

Mercer raised an eyebrow. "And what do you know of pirates, Miss Thorne?" he asked.

Victoria pursed her lips and did not respond, but she exchanged a knowing look with Catherine. Catherine, at least, assumed Mercer did not know of Victoria's escapades; Victoria quite obviously knew otherwise, from the dark look she shot his way when Catherine wasn't looking.

"Well, I think it's all rather frightening," Catherine interjected. "If you were anyone else I would expect you to be terrified."

"I _am_ terrified," Victoria said frankly. "I'm terrified that Beckett is going to find a way to manipulate me into marrying him in the midst of all this."

"Oh, come now, Tori," Catherine scolded. "It wouldn't be so bad."

"You haven't spent any time speaking to Beckett about anything," Victoria said sourly. "You don't know how infuriating he can be."

"Funny," Mercer couldn't help but say; "He said something similar about you to me."

Victoria spun about in her chair and snapped, "If you intend to make commentary on everything that I say, then I shall throw you out of the house!"

"I should like to see you attempt that," Mercer scoffed. "Firstly, I'm here by Beckett's command, and neither he nor the guards he provides will permit you to force me out. Secondly, your father has given his blessing to my presence, so he will wish me to remain here too. Thirdly, as vicious as you are, you are hardly capable of removing me by pure physical force alone. I have great faith in your abilities, Miss Thorne, but you sorely undermine my skill and training if you feel that you are a match for me."

Victoria glared sullenly at him, but did not argue – after all, there was nothing to argue. He was right, and she knew it. Mercer noted Catherine's disapproving stare and sank back into the shadows again. Damn his wayward tongue… it was easy to verbally spar with Victoria, but it became awkward when another lady of her class was present. They would disapprove of such rough speech. He mentally berated himself and kept a forced and unnatural silence through the rest of the meeting.

Although he did not speak, he was most observant. Victoria treated Catherine as a younger sister, spoke frankly with her about everything, and kept no secrets from her. It was clear from the occasional significant glance that passed between them that they needed no words to communicate.

To his surprise, their subjects of conversation were not usually about various gossip topics. They ranged into politics, sharing astonishingly learned and insightful opinions; touched on business, which Victoria seemed to know a great deal about, although Catherine's knowledge was clearly limited; discussed some of the ancient Greek classics, Homer in particular; and spoke of society and social class. Mercer had expected Victoria to know a great deal on many topics – from what little contact he had had with her he had seen her to be a most unusual woman.

As for Catherine…

The girl may have appeared the perfect lady, but when she spoke with Victoria her opinions were just as educated and interesting as Victoria's. The difference was that Catherine seemed to see the world through the eyes of a child. Victoria was naïve, certainly, but Catherine was beyond that. She was _pure_ – something Victoria had not been for a very long time.

If he had thought Victoria "shiny," he'd had no idea of his own definition. Catherine was truly "shiny," perfect and bright and uncorrupted by the world – the most rare form of person. Someone had to protect that innocence; it would be a crime, a blow to the world, to lose someone with such a happy view of life.

When Catherine left, she actually bid him farewell. Most noblewomen that Mercer had been introduced to had automatically noted that he was lower class and had not deigned to speak to him again. He was more than a bit amazed when Catherine politely wished him a good night and told him it had been a pleasure to meet him. Even as Victoria walked her down the hall to the door, he watched her with a puzzled frown on his face, entirely uncertain what to think of her.

When she was gone, Victoria came floating back with a mysterious look in her eyes. Mercer raised an eyebrow at her, the bonds that had held back his commentary gone now that Catherine had left. "What?" he asked bluntly.

She smiled gloatingly. "You like her," she said simply.

Mercer frowned again. "I don't dislike her, certainly," he said.

Victoria shook her head and rolled her eyes. "And you said Charlotta Harris was dense," she snorted. "You_ like_ her, Mercer. If you wish for her to return you the favor than I advise you to speak more often and less harshly next time she visits."

Mercer's eyes narrowed. "Why would I care what Miss Whitlock thought of me?" he questioned. "And in regards to your last comment – I do not speak well around those I do not know, and I am… especially uncomfortable around upper class women. I was not bred to spend time with them and I cannot accommodate for their delicacies."

"Cat's a delicate soul, to be sure, but not so much as you think," Victoria said with a shake of her head. "You can say what you like in front of her and she won't judge."

Mercer appeared unconvinced. "There's no one like that in the world," he said certainly.

Victoria gave him a piercing stare. "There's no one like Cat," she replied.


	4. Enter Rosemary

It quickly became clear that Victoria was to be barricaded in the house. Mercer followed her everywhere she went, and even if he did not attempt to stop her from leaving the house, the guards who now stood posted at her door would block her way with their bayonets. "I'm sorry, Miss Thorne," one of them said apologetically to her the first time it happened. "We have orders."

She'd turned to glare accusingly at Mercer, but he'd merely smiled serenely at her and motioned with one arm to the stairs leading back to her rooms. In a fury she'd stormed up and tried to lock the door on him, but he caught it and forced it open. "I wouldn't do that again," he advised, glaring darkly at her. And deep in her heart, she felt the first stirrings of true fear.

Despite Beckett's personal importance and busy schedule, he visited frequently during the weeks following her attack. He charmed her parents and talked business with her eldest brother Byron, but her two other brothers, Charles and Edmond, were aloof and threatening whenever in his presence. Victoria suspected that Charles was only taking her side because Beckett had overlooked him for a recent promotion. Beckett appeared to believe the same thing, as he gave Charles the promotion in the third week after her fateful assault. Victoria knew the instant Charles received the promotion that one of her allies was lost; she had only one supporter in the household left, and that was Edmond.

And then there was also the fact that she had been effectively cut off from the entire world – not only the galas and parties at which she would have seen her upper-crust companions, but also her friends at the _Blind Beggar_. The pirates and other peasants had been an inspiration to her and had helped her survive the stiff formality and repressive atmosphere of the aristocracy. Victoria despised the polite facades and retiring manners of every rich person she knew; everything seemed so false to her, and she was the sort who appreciated genuineness. She had found something true amongst the peasants. They were poor and looked down upon and proud of it besides. It seemed to her that they gave off no false pretenses; they were who they were and that was the end of it. With them, Victoria felt she could be true to herself without difficulty – especially when she was with Orson.

Victoria did not weather her separation from Orson well. Knowing he was in London and being unable to see him was terrible; knowing that he had not attempted to contact her made it even worse. She felt as though her beloved had abandoned her, and she was desperately lonely all the time. She waited and waited for a note or a sign from Orson, but none came. Her body, thwarted in its need to be close to her lover, screamed at her and demanded compensation for its unfulfilled desires – compensation that Beckett would most willingly have provided, if Victoria's love for Orson and her own stubborn loathing of Beckett had not caused her to leap away from him and stalk off around the garden until someone found them each time his touches strayed from being anything but brotherly. But, to Beckett's great frustration, she never offered him any opportunity to have her and, despite his own amoral-ness, he refused to take her by force.

Eleanor had been deeply concerned that something of that sort might occur at first, and she'd said as much to Victoria one day after Victoria had fled a brief but passionate little tryst (for which Beckett had received a very sound slap across the face). Eleanor had questioned tremulously whether or not Beckett had tried to rape her.

"Even he has _some_ standards," Victoria had replied in irritation, and that had been the end of that.

Still, tongues were set a-wagging as the news of Victoria's attack spread throughout the aristocracy. An aura of mystery and excitement now surrounded the Thorne family – and everyone was immensely curious about the progress of Beckett and Victoria's courtship. Wild and vicious rumors were flying at every turn, and because of Victoria's virtual house arrest, she was never there to debunk them. Her friends were rapidly beginning to grow concerned, and all of them wanted to know the truth. So they sent an emissary to find out the truth for them.

That emissary's name was Rosemary Wellington.

- - - - - - - - -

When Rosemary came to visit Victoria, she waltzed right past the Company guards as though they didn't exist. Unsure what their orders were about visiting noblewomen, they stared at each other in confusion and then simply let her enter the house without comment. If Beckett didn't want her there, then they would hear about it later. They could only pray that hearing about it did not mean losing their heads for it.

Rosemary most likely would have ignored Mercer, too, but he was rather difficult to simply bypass. Besides, unlike the guards, he would not permit himself to be ignored. He moved to stand swiftly in front of the drawing room doors, blocking the entrance to Rosemary before she could enter. "State your name and business," he said.

Rosemary smiled sweetly at him and stepped uncomfortably close. "No need to look so unfriendly," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder, which he eyed as though it were something highly distasteful. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

Mercer raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize we'd ever met," he replied evenly.

"We haven't," Rosemary said, "But you'll be glad we did." She raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Mercer didn't look remotely interested in the offer she was apparently making. "I wouldn't count on it, Miss," he said in mild amusement.

Rosemary huffed and stepped back from him. "Not very easily swayed, are you?" she said sullenly.

"That's why I have this job," Mercer said with a grin. "You still haven't told me your name and business."

Rosemary tossed her head and said haughtily, "I'm Rosemary Wellington – I'm a friend of Victoria's. I've come to visit her. It's been almost a month since I've seen her, you know."

"She's busy," Mercer said simply. He hadn't moved an inch since the conversation began.

"Too busy for her best childhood friend?" Rosemary questioned.

"Yes," Mercer said flatly.

Rosemary tried to push past him, but he calmly shoved her back. "Bloody hell, who's she with in there, anyway? The bloody Queen of Spain?" she demanded.

"Someone vastly more important," Mercer responded with another small grin.

Rosemary frowned, then guessed who was visiting. "I hardly think Beckett is more important than the Queen of Spain," she said, pursing her lips.

"A woman's grasp of politics," Mercer said dismissively.

Rosemary looked ready to raise her fist and punch Mercer in the mouth, but at that moment the door opened. "What's going on?" Victoria asked, peering out from behind Mercer.

"Tori!" Rosemary exclaimed. "Tell this bastard to get out of my way before I shoot him!"

"You don't even have a pistol," Mercer said with a snort.

"You do," Rosemary pointed out, "And it wouldn't be very difficult for me to wrench it from you."

"Perhaps if you were dealing with one of the fops that populate the upper class you might be correct," Mercer said disdainfully.

"Your own servant just called you a fop," Rosemary informed Beckett as he appeared behind Victoria looking dangerously angry.

"I believe," Beckett said coldly, "That he was referring to everyone else in the aristocracy." He took Victoria's arm and attempted to pull her back into the room, but she held her ground.

"Mercer, for God's sake, let Rose in," she said irritably. "I haven't seen her in over a month."

"We weren't finished," Beckett snapped.

"You'll be back tomorrow, won't you?" Victoria retorted. "I've seen _you_ quite more than I've wished to over the past few weeks."

"How odd," Beckett fired back, "As you've hardly seemed to object to my presence whenever we're alone!"

Victoria turned bright red and jerked her arm from his grip. "Out," she said harshly, pointing towards the door.

Beckett's eyes flashed at being ordered away. "Don't you _dare_ tell _me_ what to do!" he snapped.

Victoria didn't back down. "This is my house, and I shall do as I please in it," she said icily. "You don't own me yet."

Beckett smiled nastily. "Not yet, my dear," he said, eyes glinting, "But soon enough, I will." He paused and glared at Rosemary, who merely returned the look with an equal amount of dislike. He looked about to make another comment, but he restrained himself. Instead, he bowed derisively to Victoria and said, "Until tomorrow, Miss Thorne." Then he turned and stormed out, shoving an unfortunate and hapless Company guard out of his way as he went.

A heavy silence hung between the trio remaining for a moment. Finally, Mercer broke it with a small, amused sigh. "Ah, love," he said with a wicked grin.

Victoria flushed deeply and shoved him in the arm. "Get out of my way before I slaughter you," she growled. He stepped to the side and mockingly bowed Rosemary in.

He entered the room behind them and closed the doors. Rosemary glared maliciously at him, silently commanding him to leave, but he didn't budge. She glanced at Victoria, but she merely shrugged helplessly. "It's Mercer's job to guard me," she said, by way of introduction.

"Hmmph," Rosemary said as she dropped into a chair. "Some fine job he was doing of guarding you from Beckett. I don't see a chaperone in here."

"I _am_ the chaperone," Mercer said.

"Ah, an inside man," Rosemary said knowingly. "I understand now. I always wondered how Beckett escaped the guardians protecting the women he was wooing."

"Oh, his ways are many," Victoria said bitingly, burying her face in her hands. "I've experienced only a fraction of his methods."

"Methods?" Rosemary repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You've been slipping off alone with Cutler Beckett? That hardly seems like you. I'd have expected you to hit him sooner than kiss him."

"I haven't let him touch me," Victoria said disgustedly, "Which is not to say that he hasn't attempted it. Being alone with him merely gives me a better opportunity to insult him. I can't be as rude as I'd like in front of my parents."

Mercer snorted. "I haven't noticed much restraint on your part when they're present," he said.

Victoria ignored this remark. "He'll drive me mad," she said in exasperation. "I see him at least twice a week, and only him. Cat's only visited me once, and I've not heard a word from…" Here she paused and glanced at Rosemary, who nodded to indicate she understood. "The truth is, Rose, I'd prefer his company to none at all."

"Then you're in a far sadder state than I expected," Rosemary said dryly. "But why on earth do you stay locked in the house all the time? We never see you at parties anymore. What's happened?"

And so Victoria related the story of her attack, too tired and upset to add embellishments. She also included her visit with Orson, which surprised Mercer not only because he hadn't expected Rosemary to know of the pirate lover but also because Victoria had been careful not to say anything about Orson in front of him up to that point. She related the demise of Thomas the stable boy and Beckett's belief that a gang of pirates was attacking the family. She told of the sudden descent of the Company's guard upon her house and how she had been trapped inside ever since. She talked of Orson and how greatly she missed him, and of how he hadn't even tried to communicate with her recently.

Clearly, Mercer realized, Victoria trusted Rosemary more than almost anyone else. Also, Victoria had come to understand that whatever Beckett knew, Mercer probably knew too. Her talk of Orson had shown him that. Rosemary was an attentive and sympathetic audience to Victoria's woes, listening silently while Victoria poured out the story to her long-absent friend.

When at last the long tale was completed, Rosemary broke the silence by saying, "I was under the impression that you despised Beckett."

"I do," Victoria insisted vehemently, looking astonished that her friend would even suggest the opposite was the case.

"I can't quite bring myself to believe that," Rosemary said quietly. "From the way you speak of him... the words you say are harsh and angry, but your tone has no conviction. It's almost as if you admire him."

Victoria laughed bitterly. "Admire him?" she said thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I do, in some regard. As twisted as it seems, you can't quite help but admire his persistence. And look at all that he's done to trap me. He's successfully cut me off from all influences save his. That takes skill and wit. And besides, he faces me down several times a week without fear. That's quite brave of him."

"Or quite stupid," Rosemary fired back. "I still don't see it."

"You don't understand," Victoria sighed. "You haven't spent enough time around him to know what it's like…"

"What do you mean?" Rose asked with a frown.

Victoria stared ponderously at the table between them. "Beckett has this… this _power_ about him," she said slowly. "You can feel it, and it draws you in until you're trapped and you can't escape, no matter how much you struggle. _Everyone_ feels it in some regard – those who loathe him, those who work for him, those who merely see him on the street – we all notice it. Longer exposure to him makes it harder to disentangle yourself from it, though. He's terrifyingly seductive in a way I can't explain, and it frightens me, Rose. It's like he's slowly strangling me and I don't have the strength or skill to fend him off – not for much longer."

Rosemary looked grim. She laid her hand over Victoria's and whispered, "You _have_ to keep fighting him, Tori. You can't give in – not if you don't want him. I'll find a way to get you out of the house; I promise. Perhaps if you're out visiting friends again and going to balls you'll be able to clear your head."

Victoria nodded, but she seemed not to have heard. "Why hasn't he written me?" she said suddenly, and both Mercer and Rosemary knew she was referring to Orson. "Why hasn't he sent word or said _something_? He should have at least written me a small note by now…"

Rosemary glared at Mercer. "Maybe someone's taken the notes," she suggested.

At this, Victoria's whole body seemed to burst with energy where before it seemed sapped of its will. She whipped about in her chair, her eyes on fire. "Mercer!" she exclaimed, but he shook his head slowly.

"There have been no letters, Miss Thorne," he said.

"As if he would tell you," Rosemary snapped.

Mercer shot her a dirty look. "I have lied many times and to many purposes," he said, "But for once I am not lying."

"I don't believe you," Rosemary said flatly.

"What do you want me to do about it?" he demanded. "Swear on my soul?"

"I don't believe you have a soul, Mercer," Rosemary said icily.

Mercer didn't flinch. "Sometimes I wonder myself," he said, his voice empty.

"Swear on something that has great value to you," Victoria insisted. "Promise me that, at least."

He hesitated, then raised his right hand and said with difficulty, "I swear on the soul of my murdered sister that I have not received any letters from Orson."

Both Rosemary and Victoria were sobered by this oath. "You had a sister?" Victoria murmured.

"No questions," Mercer said gruffly, turning to glare at the fire. "I don't want to talk about her."

"I'm… sorry," Victoria said, biting her lip.

Rosemary broke the awkwardness of the moment by saying, "Perhaps he was frightened off by the guard surrounding your house. After all, he _is_ a pirate."

"He's done more daring things than slip past a few incompetent Company guards," Victoria said with a shake of her head.

"They're not _all_ incompetent," Mercer said. "Just the ones at the front door today, apparently. They shouldn't have let you in."

Rosemary's blue eyes narrowed. "Not everyone can be as terrible to beautiful women as you can," she retorted.

Victoria started to smile. "He's not _always_ terrible to beautiful women," she informed Rosemary. She glanced back at Mercer and grinned. "He seems rather fond of Cat."

Mercer flushed and glared darkly at her. "I have no idea where you get your ridiculous notions," he snarled. "I have _no_ interest in Miss Whitlock."

"Then why are you blushing?" Rosemary asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mercer shot her a nasty look. "People can flush with anger," he said sullenly. "It happens all the time."

Rosemary and Victoria exchanged a knowing glance, but didn't push the subject. "Look, I'm sure he's just waiting for this to pass," Rosemary said, returning to the original topic of conversation. "Any message he sends you could be discovered by Beckett, and then Beckett would know where to find him."

"Beckett already knows where to find him," Mercer interjected, "So I hardly believe that that's an issue."

"What if Beckett's killed him?" Victoria cried suddenly.

"He hasn't," Mercer replied, "But I wouldn't expect the situation to remain that way – especially if you keep going on about the man like this."

"Oh, God," Victoria moaned, slumping in her chair and hiding her face in her hands. "Does Beckett intend to destroy me?"

Rosemary shot a frigid look in Mercer's direction. "We won't let Orson die," she promised.

"We?" Mercer repeated. "Do you carry a frog in your pocket, Miss Wellington?"

"I wasn't referring to you," Rosemary snapped. Then she paused, looking curiously at Mercer. "Although…" she said slowly, "We could always use your help."

"No," he said flatly. "My loyalty is first and foremost to Beckett."

"Well, won't Cat be disappointed?" Rosemary sighed elaborately.

Mercer turned with incredible speed to look at her. "What?" he said sharply.

Rosemary grinned behind her fan. "It's just that I know Cat, being a dear friend to Victoria, will want to help us protect Orson," she said innocently. "And I know Cat, being the sweet girl she is, will of course be most admiring if you assist us in any way you can."

Mercer frowned, but he turned away and said darkly, "Lying is not an admirable trait. As I've said, I've done it many times and to different purposes, but I cannot pretend to be something I am not merely to impress a woman in whom I have a mild interest."

"So you admit to being interested!" Rosemary said triumphantly.

"_No,_" Mercer said gruffly. "Shouldn't you be comforting your dear friend Victoria in all her distress?"

Rosemary turned back to Victoria, chagrined, but Victoria clearly was lost in her own thoughts. "Mercer," she said absently, "What do you know about Orson?"

"A great many things that you do not," Mercer replied.

"Such as?" Victoria shifted to look at him, her face reflecting a deep fear.

Mercer glanced at her, but turned away again. "My knowledge remains for Beckett," he said simply.

"So he can use it against me?" she said angrily.

"Possibly, yes. You and I both know the sort of man Beckett is."

"You're no better for helping him," Victoria hissed.

"I never claimed to be," Mercer said with a shrug.

Victoria slumped again, defeated. "I shall go mad if things continue as they are," she sighed.

"Don't worry," Rosemary said forcefully. "I'll help you in any way I can."

"And I'll be watching you every step of the way," Mercer cautioned.

Rosemary didn't bother to glare at him this time. "Tori, you're tired," she said gently. "I can tell… you should go upstairs and rest."

"Perhaps I will," Victoria murmured. "I've slept so restlessly the past few nights…" She stood, and Rosemary stood with her. Victoria hugged her friend quickly and said, "Thank you for the visit. I'm sorry I wasn't in better spirits."

"Don't apologize," Rosemary said forcefully. "It's hardly your fault. I'll get you out of this mess, I promise."

Victoria smiled but didn't look as though she believed it. "Thank you, Rose," she murmured. "Please do stop by to see me again sometime soon."

Victoria drifted out of the room, leaving Rosemary and Mercer alone.

Mercer studied Rosemary's face. She was a tall beauty with blue eyes that looked like chips of a frigid winter sky and long dark hair that was roughly upswept – much messier than most noblewomen preferred to keep their hair. She had full pouting lips and a long, swan-like neck. The neckline of her dress plunged so low it was almost beyond scandalous, and her dress fit quite tightly to her torso. It was also a most unusual shade of teal – far too bright for what was currently fashionable. She almost looked the upper class equivalent of a prostitute. She turned to him and said sharply, "What do you know of Orson that Tori doesn't?"

Mercer looked directly into her frigid eyes. "Let us say simply that you may not wish to defend him so passionately," he said. "All men have some evil in them, of course, and Beckett's is greater than many others, but at least he has made no promises to Victoria that he has no intention of keeping."

"What does _that_ mean?" Rosemary demanded.

Mercer started to turn away, but Rosemary rushed forward and grabbed his arm. "If I am to help Tori I'd like to know who it is I'm defending her against – Beckett or Orson," she said.

Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Both of them, I should think," he said. "Although Beckett has made no pretense about who he is and what he does to achieve his goals. Orson cloaks everything he does in Victoria's naiveté and his own lies."

"Bloody hell, Mercer, what are you referring to?" Rosemary demanded. "I'll pay you for the information - !"

"I don't want your money," Mercer said disgustedly.

"I'll get Cat to speak to you," she offered.

Mercer almost panicked at that. "_No_," he snarled. "No, that would make everything worse than it already is!"

Rosemary raised an eyebrow, but let it pass. "Then what do you want for this information?" she asked.

"Your promise not to meddle in Beckett's affairs," he said, recovering himself with astonishing speed. "If you just leave them alone, it'll turn out all right."

"All right?" Rosemary scoffed. "With Victoria as Beckett's wife? I hardly think she'd consider that acceptable."

Mercer shook his head. "She'll not be treated badly as his wife, you know," he said. "He's a twisted soul, Beckett, but he cares about her in his own very strange way. The ways in which his feelings manifest themselves aren't what's considered 'good' or romantic, but that's the way he is. It's what's brought him so far so quickly. And at any rate, he admires her – he _respects_ her. He wouldn't want her this much if he didn't."

Rosemary didn't look convinced. "So be it," she said finally. "If your information proves Orson is a lying bastard and has been hurting Victoria all this time without her knowledge, I swear not to sabotage Beckett's schemes to wed Tori."

"Good," Mercer said with a smile. The smile faded rapidly. "Orson's married," he revealed. "To a girl named Jane Thrush. Been married about five years now. He has three sons. He hardly ever visits home – he just sends a little of his earnings back to them when he can. Jane has no idea of his affair with Victoria. As you doubtless already know, Orson has promised to take Victoria away and marry her. Obviously this will be impossible with his marriage already on record."

Rosemary stared at him, shock and anger registering simultaneously on her face. "Do you have this record?" she asked in a deadly quiet voice.

Mercer nodded, pulling the record from an inner pocket in his coat. It was a register of marriages aboard a ship. Orson Shaw and Jane Thrush Shaw were listed five names up from the bottom.

Rosemary glared at the paper in her hands, then handed it resolutely back to Mercer. "Why haven't you told her?" she asked. He could tell it was taking a great deal of effort to keep her voice calm.

"You've seen the state she's in," Mercer said. "She'll completely break down if I reveal this to her."

"Have you told Beckett?"

"Not yet. But soon."

Rosemary glared out the window. Finally she burst out, "How can he do this to her?"

Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Beckett?"

"Orson!" she exclaimed. "She's so utterly in love with him… has been for so long. I was so happy for her – happy that she had found someone who respected her intelligence and her beauty and her sweetness - !"

"Then be happy that Beckett has noticed her," Mercer advised, "As it's all those things that caused Beckett to choose her."

Rosemary frowned. "I disapprove of Beckett's methods," she said coldly.

"He sees no other recourse. Being reasonable clearly doesn't work on Victoria."

Rosemary smiled fondly. "No, I don't suppose it does," she admitted. They fell silent again for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, Rosemary said, "I should go."

"You will keep your promise then?"

Rosemary hesitated, then nodded, cringing slightly. "I will keep my promise," she said. Then she turned and rushed out before she could change her mind.


	5. Encounters in the Garden

Beckett had had no intention of permitting Victoria to leave her house for any reason, but her parents rapidly grew concerned for her mental well being. They had noticed that she looked tired and sickly in recent days, and they began to fear that being shut away was destroying her. "She can be accompanied by a small contingent of guards to each gala, can't she?" Benedict said to Beckett after one of his visits. "She'll be protected well enough then – and besides, you'll be escorting her to each gala, I assume. With you there I highly doubt any pirates will dare to attack her carriage."

Beckett was given no choice but to give in – after all, it would seem more than a touch strange if he refused a request meant to improve his future wife's health. He did it with great reluctance, knowing that being out and about would give her that much more strength to fight him.

The ball was held at her cousin Mary Yardley's magnificent home, and Victoria and Beckett's presence was apparently a surprise to everyone attending – including the Yardleys. They had sent the invitations but had not expected either to make an appearance, as they had been reclusive for nigh two months. Yet there they were, arm in arm, both dressed in finery that put all other guests to shame. Victoria was already starting to glow – her new freedom brought color back to her cheeks and a more ready smile to her face. She bestowed her dazzling beam on several of her friends whom she had not seen in quite some time as they gawped at her and her immensely desirable beau.

It was Mary, ever the gracious hostess, who was the first to officially greet them – although her greeting was rather improper. "Tori!" she squealed ecstatically, throwing her arms around her cousin. "We didn't expect to see you! It's been so long – my goodness, you would not _believe_ the rumors that have been flying about you!"

"Rumors?" Victoria questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Come with me and I'll tell you," Mary said, tugging at her hand.

Victoria started to go with her, but Beckett held fast to her arm and coughed ever so slightly.

Mary abruptly seemed to notice him. She curtsied, embarrassed by her rudeness, and murmured, "Lord Beckett – do forgive me; in my excitement at seeing my cousin I quite forgot myself…"

"Perfectly acceptable, Miss Yardley," he said dismissively. "But if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to hold on to her a bit longer."

"Of course," Mary said with a quick nod. "If you should need anything, do let me know."

Beckett inclined his head slightly in acceptance and then gracefully pulled Victoria into the midst of the other guests.

Victoria felt a million angry words rise in her throat, but she bit them back – much as she would have loved to publicly rebuke Beckett, he was still courting her. Besides, she had already seen that her insults and slights did nothing to offend him. If they fought in the middle of all these people, it would only start more nasty gossip.

She moved gracefully with Beckett around the large ballroom, and she quickly became aware of the fact that she was part of a very deliberate display. She wasn't surprised – Beckett had ordered the flaming crimson and gold dress she was wearing, even going so far as to purchase a matching ruby and gold necklace, ruby earrings, and rubies to drip throughout her blonde hair. His frock coat nicely matched hers, in a similar hue of crimson with gold filigree. They quite stood out amidst a sea of pastel and dark colored clothing – but then, that had been his intention. He had chosen a color that was not only bright but that complimented her in the best way. Even her brothers had been stunned by how elegant and lovely she looked when fully dressed in Beckett's finery. As far as she could tell, she was drawing the eye of virtually every man in the room – and their stares were quickly redirected to Beckett, envious stares that would have caused a lesser man to cower back. Beckett merely smiled serenely, knowing his plan had worked perfectly.

Victoria was introduced to several of Beckett's more important associates at the Company, all of whom complimented him on his excellent taste in women and all of whom refused to speak directly to her. They held lengthy business conversations with Beckett, discussing matters on which Victoria would have loved to give her opinion. But whenever there seemed an opening in the conversation and she had organized her thoughts enough to submit her own response for consideration, the men always turned to her and said, "No doubt we're quite boring you with men's talk, Miss Thorne. I'll let you go." And off they would wander, leaving Victoria to inwardly curse the idiocy of men.

It was when they were speaking to about the fifth of these men that Beckett proved to her that he knew her startlingly well. In the midst of his business discussion with his fellow lord, Vincent Webb – who had formerly attempted to court Victoria and had given up after approximately two weeks – he turned to her and asked, "What do you think, Victoria? You've had a great deal of experience in these matters. Your father has doubtless spoken to you about his own woes in the merchant business."

Victoria was so taken aback that it took her a moment to arrange her thoughts. She recovered herself as rapidly as possible and quickly laid out the ideas that she had been quietly forming in her mind. Lord Webb took a very sudden interest in his nails as she talked, clearly ignoring everything she was saying. Beckett, however, listened intently to every word, taking into consideration what she said.

"Yes, well, that's very interesting," Webb interrupted finally, "But I'm afraid I've more important things to do than listen to a mere girl espouse her business values. Good night, Lord Beckett – Miss Thorne."

Victoria's eyes narrowed as she watched him depart. She turned back to Beckett and hissed, "I _loathe_ that man. Can you believe he even thought to court me once?"

Beckett chuckled. "One cannot assess your personality merely by looking at you, my dear," he said.

"I suppose that's true enough," Victoria conceded. She hesitated a moment, then asked shyly, "What did you think of what I'd said?"

Beckett looked at her thoughtfully. "You're quite business-savvy," he said. "Mercer had told me as much. That's a great asset to you, Victoria – should anything happen to your future husband –"

"You say that as though 'my future husband' is not to be you," Victoria noted in amusement.

He smiled. "I did not wish to offend you with my own narcissistic beliefs," he said, "As you are quite resolutely set on marrying someone – _anyone_ – besides me."

"Not _anyone_," Victoria snorted. "If I had to choose between you and Lord Webb, for example, I'd choose you."

"I'm deeply comforted," Beckett said dryly. "All right, then, if something should happen to _me_, you will be able to handle the household and money left to you with more wisdom than most women. And for that, I am grateful." He glanced at a cluster of young ladies all staring after them with immensely curious gazes. "I believe your friends are missing you," he said, nodding in their direction. "I should let you go to them. I'll come retrieve you when it's time to leave, shall I?"

"What, no dances, my Lord?" Victoria asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. "If the urge should come to me, I'll find you," he said. He released her arm and moved off in the direction of a cluster of lords. Victoria stared after him a few moments, now-familiar confusion building inside her, and then she turned and hurried off to meet her friends.

* * *

Rosemary Wellington was also present at the Yardley's ball. She didn't particularly enjoy the dancing, but she _did_ enjoy the admiration with which men looked at her, the envious glares she received from the other ladies, the gossip – the "walks" she took in the garden.

Rosemary was rather infamous in her own right for having seduced her first lord when she was just fourteen. Since that fateful night she had had a slue of other lovers – all of whom she eventually grew bored with and abandoned for someone else. Why they accepted such behavior from her she could never be certain – perhaps they were embarrassed to admit that she'd grown tired of them. But for whatever reason, they let her be, although they whispered terrible things about her behind their hands. She accepted the gossip calmly, knowing that she quite frankly deserved it. She didn't mind it; it made her famous, and it made infinitely more men look her way.

The Lady Whore, they called her, a derogatory name that made her flinch but that she pretended to accept with pride. As far as she was concerned, the only way to remain free in this stiff and miserable society was to move outside the realm of what was socially acceptable – and so she flirted and teased the lords and wealthy merchants who surrounded her, drove them mad with wanting and then drew them out into the gardens for a scandalous (but vastly entertaining) tryst.

Her most recent flame, a young but well-moneyed merchant's son by the name of Michael Pretorias, was out in the gardens with her that night – unbeknownst to his father and mother, who were both attempting to set him up with a young lady of good family by the name of Cythina Grimwood. Cythina was one of Rosemary's better friends; Cythina was always bored with everything, whether it be money, men, or gossip. Nothing excited her and nothing interested her, and she always had a sarcastic and biting remark for everyone. It had, in fact, been Cythina who had enlisted Rosemary's help that night. She had asked Rosemary to distract Michael, knowing full well how Rosemary usually "distracted" someone. Cythina simply wasn't interested in Michael – nor any other man, for that matter.

Rosemary was in the midst of her usual "distracting" activities, hidden by a hedge in the Yardleys' huge and magnificent garden, when someone stepped from the dark shadows and said, "Rosemary Wellington?"

Rosemary gasped and fell off the bench she had been awkwardly teetering on, tumbling to the ground in a rustle of skirts, petticoats, and other uncomfortable undergarments. Michael made a dive for his pistol, which had been dropped to the ground along with the belt and frock coat he had previously been wearing. Rosemary stood, adjusted her dress in embarrassment, and squinted at the man who had interrupted their tryst. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded sharply and fearlessly.

The man chuckled and stepped closer, light from the moon dancing across his face. He had the dark, weathered skin of a sailor, and his brown hair was pulled back from his face by a crudely tied handkerchief. He wore simple breeches and knee-high leather boots. A cutlass swung threateningly at his side, tied by a simple sash just below a plain white shirt. "You are a friend of Victoria Thorne's, aren't you?" he said, his voice rough.

Rosemary glared at him. "What's it to you if I am?" she asked.

He grinned. "I don't suppose you'd change your tune if you heard my name was Orson?" he asked.

Rosemary's glare grew even frostier. "Oh. It's you," she said contemptuously. "Why don't you die and go to hell, Orson?"

He looked surprised. "I don't… um…" he said, frowning.

"Miss Thorne, I am afraid, does not wish to see the likes of you," Rosemary informed him disdainfully, "So you'd best leave her be."

Orson sneered. "And I suppose you're going to stop me?" he asked.

"If I can't, Lord Beckett most certainly will," Rosemary retorted.

That seemed to have some effect. Orson glanced around nervously. "He's not here, is he?" he whispered furtively to her.

"Of _course_ he's here," Rosemary snorted. "Do you really think he'd just let Victoria wander in public on her own? After all, _you're_ searching for her. He wants to protect her from _you_."

Michael finally recovered from his shock. "Wait," he said, coming to stand beside Rosemary. "This is the pirate hunting Victoria?"

"Shut up, Michael," Rosemary said irritably. "Go put your clothes on and go back into the ballroom. I think I've had enough for tonight."

Michael looked hurt and vastly disappointed, but he did as she asked. As soon as he'd finished and gone, Rosemary snapped, "Why are you here?"

Orson grinned jauntily. "Wanting to see the woman I love isn't a worthy enough excuse?" he asked.

"Don't lie to me, you bastard!" Rosemary snarled. "You don't love her – you're just using her!"

"I have no idea what makes you think that," Orson said evenly. "I came here to see her. Bring her out to me, will you? We've a lot to discuss. After all, it's been two months since I've seen her."

"And whose fault is that, I wonder?" Rosemary fired back hotly. "You've not sent a single word to her! She was _devastated_! You destroyed her! And you've made a great enemy of Beckett – I can assure you of that!"

Orson's smug grin disappeared at that. "Beckett," he said darkly. "She's told him of me?"

"No," Rosemary said sullenly. "He knows who you are, though. He has sources who reveal a great many things to him. And if you continue your pursuit of Victoria, he _will_kill you."

Orson's eyes flashed. "Now listen here, you little whore," he said, pointing a finger directly in her face.

Rosemary raised her fist and, without hesitating even slightly, punched Orson so hard she broke his nose. "Don't you _dare_ call me a whore," she spat, and with that she stalked off across the garden and back into the Yardley mansion.

When Rosemary returned to the ballroom, she immediately went in search of Beckett. Of all the men present, he was the one she despised the most – and the one she absolutely had to see at that moment.

She pushed and shoved her way through various clusters of aristocrats, ignoring their offended exclamations and nasty glares. She even cut directly across the dance floor once, shoving dancing duos out of her path. She was a woman on a mission and no one would disturb her search.

Finally she spotted Mercer leaning casually against a large oaken set of doors leading into a room just outside the ballroom. He was keeping an eye on Victoria, who was surrounded by her usual group of friends as well as an entirely new cluster of women anxious to hear the story of her attack. She was relating the tale with great drama, over exaggerating everything – as usual, Rosemary thought with a tiny wry smile. The smile faded, and she sliced a path across the aristocrats towards Mercer.

When she reached him, she folded her hands behind her back and batted her eyelashes at him flirtatiously. It took an incredible amount of effort to play her usual teasing self, as she was desperate to share the news of Orson's presence with someone – anyone – who could punish him. Mercer was unimpressed with her performance. "What do _you_ want?" he asked scornfully. "I'm certain it's not what you're attempting to imply to everyone watching you."

Rosemary didn't lose her façade. "I was out in the garden a few moments ago," she said in a low voice, keeping her smile on her face.  
Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Am I meant to care about your trysts, Miss Wellington?" he questioned.

"You _do_ care about who I met there," she said. "Orson interrupted my rendezvous with Michael Pretorias."

"Orson?" Mercer repeated, a nasty frown crossing his scarred face. "That _is_ impressive news. Here to see Victoria, I presume." He added without changing tone, "And Michael Pretorias is far too young for you. You ought to be leaving him to suckle at his mother's breast instead of inviting him to fondle yours."

"He is not _that_ young!" Rosemary cried, outraged and a bit taken aback by such a blatant statement.

"You don't consider a just-turned-fourteen-year-old boy to be a bit fresh from the cradle, do you?" he asked in amusement.

"Nobody seems to mind when a man beds a woman that young," Rosemary retorted. "I was fourteen when _I_ had my first man."

"That's because you're a whore," Mercer told her with such brutal honesty that it left Rosemary speechless.

She drew herself up, deeply offended, and snapped, "I demand to know where Lord Beckett is! I need to see him at once, before Orson slips away."

"That I can agree with," Mercer said. He pushed open the heavy oaken door behind him. "He's in there, talking to a merchant about a purchase he wishes to make," he said. "Knock before you enter, will you? It's a highly delicate arrangement."

"Yes, yes," Rosemary said impatiently, rushing past him and through the door. There was a small drawing room just inside the doors, which Mercer closed quickly behind her, and on the opposite end of the room there was another set of doors leading, doubtless, into a chamber with a large table where merchants, lords, and other aristocratic folk could make their various deals. Rosemary approached the door quickly and raised her hand to knock, but paused, her curiosity piqued by what she heard.

"The lore claims its wielder will have control over them all, yes?" Beckett was saying, his voice low and urgent.

"So they say," the merchant replied. He sounded a bit incredulous, as though he didn't believe that what "they" claimed was true. "The real significance, of course, is its historical value. It's the most ancient sword we've yet found in England – not as elegant a weapon as a cutlass, of course, but quite beautiful for its time. Probably from the medieval era, I believe. It's worth a pretty penny, milord."

"You cannot even begin to imagine its worth," Beckett murmured, his voice so low that Rosemary was not sure she had heard correctly. There was an unusual tone of excitement in his voice – she'd never heard Beckett sound so thrilled about something before. Normally he appeared to be empty of all feeling. "You'll accept my price, then?"

"It's a decent offer, milord, but –!"

Beckett's voice was soft yet sharp and deadly as the edge of a sword as he spoke. "You know, Thompson, my agents have recently uncovered some very interesting information about a business transaction you made not long ago in Africa – a venture, as I recall, that was not Company approved. Do you know what I am speaking of, Thompson?"

Rosemary could not see the merchant's face, but she could picture his stricken look as he stammered, "Lord Beckett, I didn't… I hadn't intended… it's not what it seems, I…"

"I am not an entirely ungenerous man," Beckett cut in. "I can conveniently choose to forget that little incident… if you permit me to buy this artifact for… oh… let us say two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds?" Thompson cried, offended. "But it was worth _infinitely_ more –!"

"Or," Beckett interrupted again, voice slashing through the air, "I can inform the board of your small side deal and send you off to the damnation that surely awaits you in the next life via the hangmen's noose, if you'd prefer."

The merchant called Thompson let out a very non-masculine cry of horror. "Please, milord," he bleated fearfully. Rosemary frowned disgustedly; she could almost imagine the man on his knees before Beckett, clutching at his coattails and sobbing like a small girl child.

"Is my price fair to you, or not, Thompson?" Beckett inquired. His voice was pleasant, yet there remained something lethal in his light tones.

Thompson gasped out, "Why, of course it's fair, Lord Beckett. An excellent price for a worthy purchase."

"Good man," Beckett said absently. There was a clink of coins; it sounded as though Beckett had thrown them casually onto the table. "Take your dues and go, Thompson, and speak to no one of our meeting. Should word find its way out, then so to shall the charges against you be revealed."

Thompson whimpered. There was the sound of things being hurriedly gathered together, and Rosemary heard him scampering to the door. Before he could burst out, she abruptly raised her hand and knocked. Thompson's footsteps stopped, and something clanked loudly as it was set onto the table. "Who is it?" Beckett said irritably, suspiciously.

"Rosemary Wellington," Rosemary said lightly, trying to sound as though she'd just entered. "I need to speak to Lord Beckett. I was told I might find him here."

There was a bit of movement inside; then Beckett swung open the door slowly, glaring with incredible dislike at her. "It must be a matter of some urgency for you to search me out," he said icily.

"Rest assured, my lord, it is of the utmost importance," Rosemary said in grave tones. "Otherwise I would have let you be. I surmise that I've interrupted a business transaction; I can leave, if you like."

"No, Thompson has finished here," Beckett said, glancing idly at the fat and sweaty man clutching a great many old-looking items to his chest. "You may go, Mr. Thompson."

Thompson pushed past Rosemary and practically ran from the room. Rosemary raised an eyebrow and turned back to Beckett, feigning ignorance on the matter at hand. "You must have frightened him badly," she said. "He looked as though he'd seen the Devil himself."

Beckett chuckled darkly. "Perhaps he has," he said. "Now, Miss Wellington, what is this 'urgent' matter you felt the need to discuss with me?"

"Orson Shaw is in the garden searching for Victoria," Rosemary said, getting straight to the point. "He asked me to send her out to him, but I refused. I've no idea how long he'll stay, now that he knows I will not bring her to him."

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "I may have to kill that man," he muttered angrily. "Very well, Miss Wellington, we shall see to it that he is caught and brought to justice. Thank you for your information." He paused and glanced curiously at her. "Why, if I may be so bold, did you come to tell me this?" he asked. "I believed you to be Victoria's friend."

Rosemary did not know for certain if Mercer had revealed Orson's marital status to Beckett yet, so she said simply, "Orson is not good for Victoria. Neither are you, of course, but I believe your intentions to be ever so slightly more sincere than Orson's. Your methods are what I disapprove of."

Beckett turned away, disinterested in her again. "My methods are my own," he said evenly, "And I will do what I must to achieve my aim. Thank you once more for your information, and good night."

Rosemary didn't bother with the usual polite curtsy; there would be no point in such formalities. Beckett knew she despised him, and there was little reason for her to pretend her feelings were otherwise. She turned and flounced out, doing her best not to turn and look at the item that Beckett had just purchased.

Beckett did not leave immediately to search for Orson. He hesitated a few seconds, eyes locked on his newest acquisition. He looked vaguely troubled, as though he were trying to decide between one item and another. Finally, it appeared the second item won out; he lifted his new purchase, took a key from his pocket (a key given to him specifically by Lord Yardley for tonight), and pushed aside a heavy drapery hiding the key to a safe. He opened the safe with the key in his hand and slid the heavy artifact inside, pausing long enough to stroke its blade with cautious and almost loving fingers, before slamming the safe closed, locking it, and hiding it again behind the curtain. He hesitated a few more seconds, then forcefully strode out of the room.

The thing in the safe had great value, but Victoria's value was perhaps still greater…

* * *

Victoria was in the midst of retelling her now-famous story of her near miss with the thugs in the alley to a group of young women who had missed the first four versions. If she had grown tired of sharing the story, she certainly hid it well. The details had grown infinitely more outrageous, but no one who had heard the story previously was bothering to correct her – they relished the drama of her tale.

Beckett smiled a bit nastily as he came to stand directly behind the chair in which Victoria was seated. He laid his hands on her shoulders, stopping her mid-sentence. "I _hate_ to interrupt such a… _rapturous_ little gathering," he said bitingly, "But I'm afraid Miss Thorne has other people she needs to attend to."

Victoria turned and gave him the dirtiest glare he had ever received. "And who might that be, Cutler?" she asked, purposefully refusing to use his title.

He ignored the slight, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Me, of course. Who else?" he replied.

"Oh, well," Victoria snorted. "God forbid I keep you waiting." She rose and smiled apologetically at the women who had been listening and said, "Forgive me, ladies; I am afraid I must depart. I'll finish this story another time."

The ladies made various cries and exclamations of disappointment as Victoria moved away from them, Beckett's arm firmly holding hers. "What is it you so urgently require of me?" Victoria asked irritably. "If you expect me to offer you the opportunity to toy with my fan, I'm afraid you'll be sadly disappointed."

"I _am_ disappointed," Beckett said with a bark of laughter. "I had rather hoped I might be afforded such an opportunity. But, alas, you remain stubborn and unyielding as always. I suppose I shall simply have to wait for the wedding night."

"The wedding night that, I might remind you, will never happen," Victoria said flatly. "I don't intend to wed you."

"Your intentions are hardly important in this matter, my dear," Beckett retorted. Before she could respond in kind, he motioned outside. "Rosemary sent a certain Michael Pretorias in to speak with me," he said. "He said that she wishes to see you in the gardens. Perhaps you ought to go meet her?"

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "You'll let me go alone?" she asked in surprise.

"Oh, don't worry," Beckett said darkly, "You'll be followed most closely. I'm afraid, however, that I have other business matters to attend to. You will forgive me if I leave you alone for awhile longer."

"Not alone, apparently," Victoria said with a sigh. "_Someone_ shall be following me."

"So I presume. I should hurry, if I were you – young Pretorias said it was urgent." With that, Beckett released her and turned away, striding purposefully across the room towards a merchant whose ship had just returned from a very productive run in the Orient.

Victoria watched him briefly to ensure he would not follow, then rushed off into the gardens.

As soon as she arrived at the wide and tall hedges, she began to call out softly, "Rose! Rose, where are you?"

After she had wandered quite some time, she began to grow frustrated. "Bloody hell, Rose, where are you?" she cried out in frustration.

Suddenly, a hand seemed to leap from the darkness and cover her mouth. "Hush, love," a rough voice hissed in her ear, "Or someone will hear you."

"Orson!" she said sharply, her mouth still covered. "What are you doing here?"

He uncovered her mouth, but didn't move to stand in front of her. He held onto her as he might a captive, one hand at her neck and the other at her waist to prevent her from fleeing. "I didn't hear that aright, love," he whispered.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned, lowering her voice. "You'll be caught and hung!"

"Oh, I doubt that," he said with a dark chuckle. "I've been hearing a great deal of unpleasant things about you, love – things about you and Beckett."

Victoria stiffened. "And what of it?" she asked haughtily.

"Rumor has it you've been shackled to the son of a bitch," Orson said, his voice low, "That he keeps you locked away at all times. That he uses you as his little whore."

"What?" Victoria cried in horror. "Never! He's done nothing of the sort!"

"It's what he wants, ain' it, love?"

"Will you stop it?" Victoria snapped. "Unhand me at once!"

"I don't think so," Orson said quietly. "See, Tori darling, what with your new connections, we pirates have decided you'd make a fine ransom for us."

"What?" she shrieked. "But I thought -!"

And then, before either of them knew what was happening, a group of redcoats burst forth from the bushes and surrounded them. "Unhand Miss Thorne!" one of them commanded.

Orson released her, raising his hands slowly in surrender. Victoria tore away from him and hurtled almost directly into Beckett's arms. "Tori," he said softly, almost sympathetically. He turned to his soldiers and said authoritatively, "Take him to the prisons."

Victoria gasped and started to struggle against Beckett's grip on her, but he turned and firmly led her away. "What are you doing?" she demanded in horror.

"Arresting Orson," Beckett replied calmly. "Does it appear differently to your eyes?"

"You can't!" Victoria cried.

"Tori, darling," Beckett said, an edge of frustration in his voice, "Your ever-so-beloved pirate just threatened to kidnap you for ransom – which, by the way, I would gladly have paid to save you –"

"That's a lie, and you know it," Victoria snapped, disgruntled. "Or else, you would have paid it, found the pirates who got the money from you, murdered them, and stolen it back."

"I merely stated that I would pay it, love, not that I wouldn't have killed them and gotten my money back later."

"Bastard," Victoria said, sounding more petulant than angry. "Why do you want to arrest Orson, anyway?"

"So he keeps his dirty pirate paws off of you," Beckett snarled with surprising ferocity.

Victoria couldn't help the tiny smile that sprang to her face. "Jealous, are we, Cutler?" she said with a smirk.

"Oh, do shut up, you little whore," Beckett said. The insult sounded less like a slight and more like a fond nickname for a beloved pet. "Putting Orson in prison accomplishes two goals for me: it keeps your filthy lover away from you and it also proves that there are indeed pirates hunting you."

"It does nothing of the sort!" Victoria cried, affronted. "He was only here -!"

"To kidnap you?" Beckett finished. "The position in which he held you didn't quite resemble a lover's embrace, did it? And the nasty things he said… Tori, my love, you may have a hard time convincing anyone besides Rosemary that he intended you no harm."

The mention of her friend's name made Tori stop quite suddenly. "You told me Rosemary was looking for me," she said, realization dawning upon her, "But you lied! You _knew_ that Orson was here, so you sent me into the gardens to find him, followed me with your soldiers, and then arrested him."

Beckett applauded in a bored manner. "Bra_vo_, Miss Thorne," he said sarcastically. "I'm most impressed with your deductive skills."

"You sneaking, manipulative, worthless little -!" She tore her arm from his grasp and tried to slap him for emphasis. He caught her wrist before her hand reached his face. "Let me go!" she snarled, jerking backwards.

Beckett turned and forcefully dragged her towards the Yardley mansion. He was a great deal stronger than he looked, Victoria realized, and she was far weaker than she'd hoped. She struggled quite a bit longer, however, until several of the more stiff and formal lords and ladies appeared at the bottom of the stairs leading into the gardens. Purely out of a sense of propriety and dignity, she stopped fighting, moved forward, and took Beckett's arm. Both of them, however, looked thoroughly disgruntled.

"My goodness," Lord Harris said when he spotted them, "The two of you look atrocious. What's happened?"

Victoria pushed a stray golden curl away from her face and sighed in irritation as it fell directly back into her face again. Beckett answered before she could. "Miss Thorne was attacked by a pirate only a few moments ago," he said smoothly. "You'll understand if we appear a bit shaken."

Harris' wife looked horrified. "My poor child," she said sympathetically – interesting how her tone seemed feigned. "You must have had quite a fright."

"Indeed," Beckett said, his temper quickly growing short. "Which is why I am returning her home now."

The small crowd quickly caught his none-too-subtle hint. "Of course, of course," Lord Harris agreed, drawing his wife aside. The others parted at his lead, and Beckett led Victoria quickly through them towards their carriage without so much as a farewell to the others.

Mercer joined them rather quickly from the shadows, holding a ragged piece of cloth in his black-gloved hand. "Orson was carrying this, sir," he said, holding it out to Beckett as they walked. "It's a note explaining what the ransom should be, why Victoria was chosen, etc. My sources tell me he was the one who selected Victoria as the ideal target."

"He didn't," Victoria said viciously, tears springing to her eyes. "You're lying!"

"He said," Mercer continued, completely unruffled, "That Miss Thorne would be an easy and gullible target, as she already had formed a connection with the pirates, and that she was likely to do anything Orson asked of her as they were lovers. He commented that your recent courting of her would make her a more valuable target as well as an easy one. He was particularly derogatory of Victoria's gullibility and was in for the vast majority of the profit to be turned by her ransom."

Victoria choked on a sob, her mind screaming at her to ignore every word that Mercer was saying, but she couldn't forget the hard, cold gleam in her beloved Orson's eyes when she'd turn to look at him as he was being arrested. There was no love there, only coldness and anger at losing such a valuable prize. He had only come to kidnap her – not because he loved her, not to see her at all.

Her heart was on the verge of shattering, but she staunchly refused to believe that any of what she had heard was true, and she had begun working out a convincing enough alibi for Orson's coldness when Beckett stopped dead and turned her to face him. "You see?" he said in a deathly quiet voice. "You see the sort of person you've chosen to love?"

Victoria jerked away from him, eyes aflame. "You, Cutler Beckett, are no different than he," she said accusingly. "If it were to suit your purpose you'd sell me just as quickly, and don't you dare deny it!" She gathered her skirts in her hands and stormed ahead. "I'm going to the carriage," she said harshly. "I want to go home. I think perhaps leaving the house was not such a good idea after all. You may attend to whatever business it is you have, and I will wait for you there."

Beckett watched her go but motioned for Mercer to let her continue ahead, much to Mercer's surprise. "You think it's wise to let her run off?" he questioned.

"She has nowhere to go," Beckett said. "Let her have some time to herself to consider her options."

He turned back to Mercer and said in a low voice, "The artifact I wished to purchase – it's in the safe in the drawing room just off the ballroom. The key is here." He handed the key to Mercer after withdrawing it from his frock coat. "Retrieve the artifact and bring it to my carriage. I'll be there with Victoria."

"You think that's wise?"

"I think after a brief period of alone time, Miss Thorne will want to be comforted," Beckett said certainly. "Forgive me; I must leave you to your task."

"Of course. Careful when you attempt to tame the beast."

Beckett snorted. "She's not so beastly as she seems… most of the time," he amended.

Mercer bowed slightly, then loped off into the shadows. Beckett turned and walked slowly across the path towards his carriage.

* * *

Victoria was sitting silently in the carriage and staring out into the blackness of the night, feeling lost and utterly alone. Orson had abandoned her; the other members of her aristocratic high society didn't seem to understand her; her family had ambitions for her that she had no wish to achieve. She was caught in the midst of a great battle, and there was no one she could see to save her from it.

The carriage door opened with a quiet click. The owner of the carriage slipped in, silent as a shadow, and seated himself calmly beside her. He said nothing, merely waited for her to speak; yet she said nothing in response to his silence.

They sat awhile like this, neither speaking, until Victoria very suddenly leaned back against him. He wrapped her up in his arms and cradled her against him while she wept, until she had finally cried herself to sleep.


	6. Spirited Away

The next day, Victoria rose from bed with a sense of purpose. She did not call for Eleanor; she knew that the moment Eleanor was brought into the picture, Mercer would appear too, and she needed to find a way to elude him. She would also have to disguise herself, she knew, or else he'd find her easily in London's streets.

She crept into the room beside hers – Eleanor's – and found some suitably simple clothing. The dress was a bit threadbare and had patches from other dresses in several places. Victoria silently reprimanded herself for not noting sooner that Eleanor was in need of some new dresses. She dressed as quickly and silently as possible, completing her modest effect with a mobcap to tuck her golden hair beneath. She studied herself in the mirror to see if it had had the desired effect. It seemed enough; her skin was a bit too pale for her to be taken seriously as one of the lower class, but if no one looked hard at her it would do.

Satisfied, she then began the difficult task of departing the third story of her house through a window. She was forced to tie her sheets and several dresses together to create a long rope down the window. She wasn't pleased at the thought of leaving the rope behind; that would give Mercer just one more clue as to the direction she had gone. But she didn't see that she had any choice; many of the servants in the household were already stirring, and it wouldn't be long before someone noticed she had attempted to slip away.

She managed to get down the rope without falling and breaking her ankle (although there had been times when she had been certain she would do so), and she moved purposefully through her home's gate without being stopped by the Company guards that stood there. They didn't expect the lady of the house to be sneaking about in a servant's clothes. They merely assumed Eleanor was walking past them and let her go.

Once she'd gotten a safe distance away from her house, she began to move quickly in the direction of the prison. It was for Orson that she had chosen to escape; she had to see him, and she knew she could never do that if Mercer or Beckett somehow got involved in her plans. She needed to know if what they said of him was indeed true – that he didn't care for her at all, that he merely intended to use her to his own ends.

The prison was a long walk from her home, and it was nearly noon by the time she reached it. She was out of breath and very hot, and in no mood at all to speak with the guards who stopped her at the door.

"Just where do you think you're going, miss?" one of the guards demanded. He clearly was in no mood to suffer her, either. "This is the prison, you know."

"'Course I know," Victoria said indignantly, trying her best at a lower class accent. "Do I look like a bloody idiot? I've got a letter here for a prisoner; 'sfrom Lord Beckett for that pirate he caught."

The guard immediately appeared contrite at the mention of Lord Beckett. "Sorry, miss," he said hurriedly. "Go on through. The warden'll take you to Orson's cell."

"Thanks much," Victoria said, a touch of haughtiness in her voice. She moved past the guards and rushed quickly inside.

The prison was dank and dark and smelled horrendous. Victoria gagged the instant the terrible smell of bodily odors rushed to her nose. "Not pretty, is it?" the warden said with a mirthless chuckle as he handed her a box of snuff. Victoria inhaled the sweet smelling powder in relief.

"Thank you," she said, momentarily forgetting about her aristocratic tones. "I'm here –"

"To see the pirate, yes, I heard. From Lord Beckett, you say?" the warden asked.

"The letter's from 'im, anyway," Victoria said, miraculously recovering the accent she had so briefly lost. "Never spoken to Beckett meself, you understand. Deal with one his clerks, I do."

"Mercer, I'll warrant," the warden said with a knowing nod.

"Yes, that one," Victoria confirmed. "'E told me it was urgent the letter be brought."

"Well, we'll have you down to see the pirate in a hurry, then," the warden said, laying a hand on her back and guiding her down a long hall. "If you'll follow me, miss…"

He led her down a winding staircase into the very bowels of the prison. They went deep underground, growing colder and smelling greatly of rot the further they went. When it seemed that they could go no deeper, the warden turned into a lengthy corridor. "This is where we keep our specially guarded prisoners," he explained. "Beckett ordered that the pirate be kept down here." He led her down the corridor to the far end of it, and then stopped in front of a tightly padlocked wooden door. He stuck the key in the lock, opened the door, and then opened it. "I'll leave you, then," he said. "He's chained to the wall; he can't damage you. You won't mind if I lock the door, will you? I'll just be a minute elsewhere."

Victoria nodded impatiently and stepped through the door. The warden closed the heavy wood thing behind her with a loud thud. The lock clicked into place, and his footsteps could be heard receding down the hall.

Orson was indeed chained to the wall, and he was currently sitting despondently on the ground, eyes downcast. He was rubbing one of the shackles around his wrist, eyeing the manacles with great depression.

"Orson," Victoria whispered, pushing back her hood to show her face.

He looked up, and the smile on his face was so genuine that she thought she certainly must have imagined his coldness the night previously. "Tori!" he cried in delight, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Victoria rushed across the room to embrace him. "Oh, Orson, I've missed you," she sighed as she dropped onto the floor beside him. "And I was so worried after last night… my God! What happened to your nose?"

He grimaced. "A guard punched me in the nose… broke the damn thing, too," he muttered. He looked up and changed tone. "I'm sorry about last night," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking… hard times has fallen on us, see…"

"I understand," Tori said quickly, cutting him off. "I just wanted to make certain you were all right."

Orson smiled grimly. "I won't be for long, love," he said sadly. "Beckett'll have me swingin' from the gallows soon enough – of that you can be certain."

"No," Victoria said forcefully. "I won't let him!"

"And how do you plan to stop Beckett from getting exactly what he wants, love?" Orson asked with a shake of his head. "You can't prevent him from doing as he pleases."

"There's a way," she insisted. "There's always a way."

Orson seemed to consider this for a moment. "Well," he said slowly, "There is… no, I can't ask you to do that."

"What?" Victoria asked anxiously. "What is it, Orson?"

"No, forget I said anything," he said, looking away. "It's too dangerous."

"_What's_ too dangerous? Orson, I'll do anything to save you – you know that!" Victoria cried.

He looked ponderously at her, then nodded. "All right, love," he said. "But you'll have to keep an open mind on this… it'll sound mad to you."

Victoria nodded, eyes wide, and waited for him to speak.

Orson looked directly into her eyes. "Beckett has been hunting for a long time for a… a special artifact," he said. "This… _thing_… would give him the power to rule over all of Britain, if he would wish it – over all of its magical creatures."

"Magical creatures?" Victoria repeated incredulously.

"I told you to keep an open mind," Orson said sharply. "Believe me, Tori, there's magic enough in all the world, no matter what others say – and Beckett has the means to control it. He'll destroy all the pirates in the British Isles by the use of this artifact, see if he don't… and once he's done that, love, he'll kill all the other pirates too. There won't be a one of us left."

Victoria did her best to take Orson seriously. "What exactly _is_ this artifact, Orson?" she asked.

"Excalibur," he said reverently, "The sword of King Arthur in the days of old, given to him by the Lady of the Lake…"

"I know what Excalibur is," Victoria said irritably. "But it's merely a legend, Orson, not a real -!"

"Victoria, it's _real_," he said forcefully. "And Beckett has it now. It fell into his hands last night – and I know he'll start to use it soon. We're afraid – all us pirates. You're the only one who can do something to help us."

Victoria stood and began to pace the cell. "But, Orson," she said, "How did you know he had this artifact? You were brought here last night."

"Why do you think I came to kidnap you?" Orson asked. "We needed leverage, love, and you were the only thing we could think to use – the only thing Beckett might trade for Excalibur."

"When given a choice between power and a lover, I imagine Beckett would choose power," Victoria said disgustedly.

"Tori, there are all sorts of other means to power," Orson said. "There's only one Victoria Thorne."

She smiled and blushed prettily at that. "I'm glad you think so," she said softly. "But how am I to get Excalibur?"

"You're close to Beckett," Orson said. "You can find out where it is."

"How?" Victoria repeated. "I fight Beckett tooth and nail. And I cannot simply ask him if he possesses such a sword, and if he answers positively I most certainly cannot ask him where he keeps it. He'll know we've spoken."

"I didn't say you should just ask him," Orson said. "Use your feminine charms, Tori – give in to him."

"_What?_" Victoria exclaimed in horror.

Orson laughed. "_Pretend_ to give in to him," he said. "Admit you can't fight him any longer. Give him exactly what he desires – marry him if you have to – then watch his every move until you find exactly where he's keeping it. Then steal it and bring it to me."

"You'll be long dead by then," Victoria pointed out.

"Escape plans are in place."

"And if they don't work?"

"Then bring the sword to the wharf," Orson told her. "Leave it in Tyris Burton's care. He'll know what to do with it. But don't reveal to any but him that you carry Excalibur with you."

"You think me that stupid?" Victoria said, insulted.

"I think you that naïve," he said with a sigh. "It will be dangerous, but I know you can help us."

Victoria continued to hesitate. "Orson," she said quietly, "If I marry Beckett… then we'll never be together."

He looked regretful. "Not in marriage, love," he said. "But if you can steal that sword… then we'll be able to find some way to be together. I know that for certain."

Victoria chewed her lip, pacing for several long minutes. Finally, she turned to him, resolved. "Very well," she said. "I'll do what I can for you."

Orson smiled brilliantly. "Tori -!" he started to say.

Before he could finish, the door burst open, and – to Victoria's horror – Mercer came storming in, followed by the warden. "You!" Mercer shouted, eyes flashing. He caught her arm in a grip so tight she cried out in pain and proceeded to drag her, stumbling and tripping, out of the cell and down the long corridor.

"Mercer!" she gasped out as he pulled her up the huge flight of stairs leading to the outside. "Mercer, for God's sake, you're hurting me!"

He ignored her plea, yanking harder on her arm in punishment. Victoria yelped in pain, but it had no affect on her captor. She suddenly felt very, very afraid. Mercer had never given her solid reason to fear him, but now she understood – he was heartless, soulless, and utterly ruthless –

Just like his master.

His master, who she would soon call her husband.

Her husband, whose every wish she would be forced to grant, whose every desire it would be her duty to fulfill…

Tears spilled from her eyes as the reality of her situation hit her in the gut. Her realizations hurt her more than Mercer's unforgiving grip around her wrist, and her fear for the future was greater than her fear of her guard. Every dream she had ever wished to achieve, every hope she had kept safely locked away, would be destroyed in the pursuit of saving the man she loved.

Maybe, maybe they would be together. But her task seemed so impossible that she doubted it. She would forever belong to a man who wanted only to possess her – another victory, another bauble to add to his already massive collection. He would break her spirit and she would submit meekly to him, because she would no longer have a choice.

By the time they left the darkness of the prison and burst forth into the sunlight on the street, Victoria felt as though she had aged ten years. Gone her childish fantasies, gone her hopes and dreams, gone her wishes for the future – there was only Beckett, and the tiny, dying hope that something better might lay beyond him.

She was jerked from her thoughts when Mercer shoved her roughly in front of him. She stumbled and started to fall, but she was quickly caught – and whoever had saved her from the fall gripped her arms more tightly than Mercer had been clinging to her wrist. "That hurts," she snapped, but all anger departed her in a rush when she looked into the face of the man holding her.

Beckett glared directly into her face, absolutely livid. She had never seen him look so angry in all her life. Certainly, she had upset him before – but she had never seen him lose control so completely as he had now. His eyes were frigid and his face was burning all at once, his rage so plain that even pickpockets were avoiding him for fear of death. "What," he said, his voice somehow controlled despite the obviousness of his anger, "Are you doing here, Miss Thorne?"

Victoria did not look away, even though she desperately wished she could. "What do you think?" she asked in a low voice.

His grip on her arms tightened. "If you run off like that again," he said, his voice low, "And if you come here to see him, _ever_, I will kill him without hesitating one second. Don't you _dare_ think I won't."

Victoria finally had to look away; she dropped her head to hide her fear. "I don't doubt you," she whispered, tears spilling over.

He made no attempt to let her go. He was still clutching her arms when the warden finally caught up with them. He paused by Beckett, panting uncontrollably. "I came," he gasped out, "As soon as… she got here… sir… I hope… it was… soon enough…"

"Preventing her escape would have been 'soon enough,'" Beckett said icily. "But you did what you could." He nodded to Mercer, who threw a small purse of coins at the man. "You are dismissed."

The man bowed and walked slowly back inside, gazing curiously at Victoria as he passed her. She did not look at him; she did not dare look at Beckett yet, either. His posture still spoke of unleashed fury; she did not want to release the storm raging within him.

Finally, he released his hold on her arms. "Your family will be wondering where you've gotten to," he said tonelessly.

Victoria nodded, head still hanging, but said nothing.

Beckett caught her hand in his, a fierce grip that crushed her fingers, and tugged her after him into his nearby carriage. Mercer followed them inside, sitting on the bench across from them and watching Victoria with a stony glare. It was difficult for her to look at him. Beckett and Mercer's combined fury was too much even for her to handle. She stared blankly at the floor of the carriage as it moved through the streets of London.

When it finally stopped in front of her house, Victoria flatly refused to get out of the carriage. She said nothing to inform the other occupants of this decision, but she folded her arms over her chest and resolutely stared in the direction opposite her house, indicating her refusal without ever saying a word. To her surprise, neither Beckett nor Mercer attempted to force her to leave. Beckett opened the carriage's door and leapt out; Mercer remained inside, eyes remaining firmly locked on Victoria's still form.

She didn't see her father come out, but she heard his voice as he spoke to Beckett. They were too quiet for her to hear what was said, but it didn't bother her; she was in no mood to listen to Beckett's machinations.

She did start with surprise, however, when Beckett reentered the carriage, closed the door, and tapped the roof to alert the driver to start moving again. She stiffened and turned her head sharply in his direction. "Where are we going?" she demanded.

"Your father has agreed that it would be best if you remained under my _personal_ watch for the time being," Beckett informed her coolly, "So for the moment you will be living in my house just outside London."

"Living with you?" she repeated in disgust. "Without a chaperone?"

"Mercer will count as the chaperone."

"Bloody brilliant," Victoria snapped. "Your clerk who obeys every word you say is the man to guard me from _your _advances. No one in society is _ever _going to suspect you of sullying my honor. You might as well send out the invitations to our wedding!"

"May I take that to mean that you accept that I will be your husband?" Beckett questioned smoothly.

"Does it matter?" Victoria retorted. "You'll take it how you like. I obviously do not have the power to stop you from doing exactly as you please."

"No, you don't," Beckett replied, satisfied. He settled back against the seat, a small smile finally appearing on his face. "Did you enjoy your last few minutes with your lover before he goes to the gallows?" he asked.

"Bastard," Victoria snarled. She turned away again, stubbornly staring out the window.

"You know, I might only have left him imprisoned if you hadn't pulled that little trick," Beckett informed her.

"To what end?" Victoria asked despondently. "So that you might threaten me with his life? I'd sooner see him dead than left to rot in that hell-hole."

"I'll grant you that wish, love, soon enough."

"My name," Victoria said through gritted teeth, "Is Victoria."

"I'll call you what I choose to," Beckett said, completely unruffled. "After all, in the very near future _you_ will be calling me 'husband.' Of that you can be most certain."

"I'd sooner die."

"That's a wish I'm disinclined to grant, though if you'd asked me earlier today I might gladly have complied."

"Next time I anger you in that degree, I'll be sure to reiterate my request."

"There won't _be_ a next time," Beckett said. "From this moment forward you are going to behave as you should, or face serious consequences."

"Such as what?" Victoria demanded. "You have no leverage."

"I have Orson."

"You've already said you intend to kill him," she said skeptically.

"Your little comment a few moments ago reminded me that sparing him – for the moment – would be infinitely more useful," Beckett said, examining the cuff of his frock coat as though they were simply making small talk. "Of course, I shall have to move him elsewhere if I'm to keep you from running off to find him."

"And who's to say I won't continue my search for him?" Victoria fired back.

"How will you search, my dear, if you've no idea where he's gone to and neither does anyone else?" he responded effortlessly. "You're quite clever – a match even for me, I daresay – but I can cover my tracks better than anyone in England."

"Touché," Victoria sighed. "If the East India Trading Company knew half of what you did, they'd have thrown you onto the streets long ago."

"They'd do no such thing," he said indignantly. "Every person slain or blackmailed is ruined in the name of progress – for the Company. It's just good business."

"And I thought I knew business quite well," Victoria said in disgust. "Clearly, a black heart adds a completely new element to the economy."

"That would require that I _have_ a heart, Miss Thorne," Beckett said with a grin. "And I'm sure you don't believe such a thing."

"No matter how cold you are, you have something of a heart hidden in you," she said, "Else you would not possibly be seeking a wife."

"A man of my station needs a wife," Beckett informed her. "Society's laws practically require it. Lords need ladies to show off at social gatherings – it's all part of an elaborate display of wealth and power. A good household requires a woman's touch in it, else it is not a proper household. And anyway, I need legitimate heirs to inherit my rather large fortune."

Victoria blushed heatedly at the thought of what would be required of her in order to produce those heirs. Beckett raised an eyebrow at the noticeable color spreading across her cheeks. "Surely you can't be flushing out of any sort of innocence, Miss Thorne?" he mocked. "All present in this carriage know you're no stranger to what goes on in the bedroom."

"You make it sound as though I'm a harlot!" Victoria exclaimed, insulted.

"Aren't you?"

"I hardly think sharing one man's bed maybe five times makes me a harlot," she snapped.

Beckett looked genuinely surprised at this. "Orson's a greater idiot than I thought if he didn't take advantage of such a beautiful woman more than five times," he said.

Victoria's blush deepened. "He wasn't present often enough to have me as much as he might have liked," she said sadly.

"Pity," Beckett said, "For him at least. _I'll_ be taking advantage of you every opportunity I have."

Mercer smirked at that, and Victoria gasped sharply and pressed herself as closely to the carriage wall as she could. "You can't be serious," she said.

Beckett's expression did not change in the slightest. "Deathly serious, actually," he said. "I do need heirs, after all."

"That won't require you to use me at every opportune moment!" she cried.

"I'm known for doing more than what's required of me," Beckett replied with a leer. "It's just… good business."

"Oh, God," Victoria groaned. "Am I to think of this exchange as a business transaction?"

"Of a sort, yes."

"One more reason why I swore never to marry anyone working for the Company," she said disgustedly. "They have no sense of romance."

"Romance can deceive you," Beckett pointed out. "Say that I had wooed you in the most romantic manner – sending you flowers and expensive gifts and all that sort of thing."

"You _did_ send me expensive gifts," she reminded him, "Or have you already forgotten that pearl necklace you gave me?"

"Those were bribes, not romantic gifts," Beckett said matter-of-factly. "And you, knowing me as well as you claim you do, should have realized that."

"Forgive me my error," she said sarcastically. "Do continue on this _fascinating_ line of discussion."

He did so. "Imagine that I had done everything in my power to charm you to the ultimate degree, until you finally agreed to marry me. Then you would come into the marriage with unrealistic expectations of what our relationship was to be like. There are certain things I want and expect from you; but how are you to know what those are if I don't tell you at the start? So you see, you're starting at quite an advantage. You know exactly what I intend of you and are thusly prepared for what marriage to me will actually be like."

"From the sound of it, I won't be needing much clothing," she said dryly.

"Not while you're in the house, you won't," he said.

"Bloody hell," Mercer muttered from across the carriage. "Forgive me if my frequent visits to your house rather abruptly cease after your marriage, sir."

"Don't tell me you're not interested in seeing Victoria unclothed," Beckett said incredulously.

"Your interests are usually mine, my Lord, but, as charming as the future Lady Beckett may be, in this case my tastes lie elsewhere," Mercer said with a shake of his head.

"I don't believe for a second that the lower class whores you associate with are what you actually desire," Beckett said. "They're simply what you've grown accustomed to. You could do better, you know."

"I highly doubt it," Mercer said, looking away. "And that's why I don't make the effort."

"Oh, really?" Victoria said innocently. "That's an interesting comment coming from a man who most certainly was making every effort to avoid embarrassing himself in front of Catherine Whitlock."

"I _do not_ have any interest in Miss Whitlock!" Mercer snarled, turning on Victoria with a nasty glint in his eye.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Miss Whitlock?" he repeated. "Now, _that's _interesting. Why _wouldn't_ you have an interest in her?"

"She's a bloody aristocrat's daughter!" Mercer said, astonished that Beckett would even think to agree with Victoria on this point. "And she's – what? Seventeen?"

"Fifteen," Victoria corrected calmly.

"Brilliant," Mercer growled. "A fifteen-year-old. No wonder she's so innocent."

"In regards to her innocence, she most certainly _wouldn't_ suit you," Beckett snorted. "Age has never been too great a barrier in society, at least not where an older man and a younger woman are concerned. But her parents, admittedly, would never permit you to marry her."

"There," Mercer said triumphantly to Victoria. "You see?"

"That doesn't change the fact that you're interested in her," Victoria said stubbornly.

"I'm not," Mercer said with great finality. "I merely noted that she's a bit different than others of her class; that's all."

Victoria nodded slowly, then said casually, "She asked about you at the gala last night, you know."

Mercer's head swiveled in her direction, but he caught himself before he said anything incriminating. "Oh really?" he said acidly. "And what did she ask? 'Has that scum previously guarding you finally been sent away?'"

"She wanted to know how you were," Victoria persisted, looking considerably put out. "And she wanted to know how we were getting on. She says that I can be very difficult to deal with sometimes. She pities you, having to spend every day with me."

"Some days I pity myself," Mercer said with a small smile. "I'd much rather be out doing something _else_ for the Company." Here he gave Beckett a significant glance.

"As entertaining as slaughtering pirates and other fugitives from justice may be for you, Mercer, you are my best and most loyal agent and therefore are assigned the duties of the greatest importance to me," Beckett said in reply to the glance. "Victoria happens to be of the greatest importance."

Mercer growled in disappointment. "How long until I can be useful again?" he asked.

"You _have_ been useful," Beckett told him, "Until, of course, this morning, when you so carelessly let Miss Thorne escape."

The coldness in his voice caused both Victoria and Mercer to shrink back from him. Mercer made no excuses for himself; in the end, Victoria felt the need to do it for him. "He assumed I was asleep," she said quietly.

"And he should have been within the room to ensure that such was indeed the case," Beckett said flatly. "What am I going to do with the pair of you? My two fortunate favorites, and both of you failed me in one day." He turned an icy gaze on Victoria. "Since Mercer is apparently so incompetent, I shall have to watch you myself," he said. "Even when you're sleeping, you'll require a guard."

"I am _not_ sleeping with you!" Victoria said sharply.

Beckett smiled, a mirthless grin. "Not _with_ me, unfortunately," he conceded, "But in my room. The orders were given this morning when I heard you'd run off; you'll have a smaller bed set up in a corner. And don't think you can slip past me, Victoria; I happen to be a very light sleeper." He turned a malicious gaze on Mercer. "I have yet to devise a sufficient punishment for you," he said, "But you mustn't worry; I'll think of something."

Mercer seemed to shrink to half his size. "I've no doubt of it," he muttered.

Fortunately, the carriage stopped at exactly that moment. Victoria silently thanked God for that; any longer in that carriage and someone might easily have found themselves dead.

She made to depart from the door opposite Beckett's side, but as soon as she'd opened the door a crack Mercer practically tackled her and dragged her back in. "Just where do you think you're going?" he hissed.

"Am I not allowed to leave the carriage yet?" Victoria demanded angrily.

"Not from that direction," Beckett replied, motioning Mercer aside and grabbing Victoria's arm himself. "There's very little in that direction; my house – and the soldiers who guard it – are this way." He opened his door and leapt out, holding out his arms to help Victoria down. She paused, and was promptly pushed by Mercer, who was standing behind her. She tumbled into Beckett, barely catching herself on his shoulders, but he had a firm hold on her. He swung her down to the ground and wrapped an arm firmly around her waist to keep her from fleeing. Mercer leapt down behind her and slammed the carriage door, then stood glaring at her, arms folded across his chest.

Apparently satisfied, Beckett turned – turning Victoria with him – and walked her through the gates, towards one of the largest and most beautiful homes she had ever seen.

She stopped, gaping in amazement at the grandeur of the place. "You _live_ here?" she breathed, stunned.

Beckett laughed. "So do you, now," he said softly. "Impressed, are you?"

"God, yes." She turned her head from side to side, taking it in with wide eyes. Beckett noted with interest that there was no greed to be seen - only astonishment at the sweeping beauty of the place. "You must have had it built yourself."

"I designed it specifically to my taste," he told her. He tugged her more closely against him. "The gardens are also quite a sight, if I do say so myself."

"I suppose you designed those too."

"Everything in my homes I either designed or personally selected," Beckett said. "I won't have someone else imprinting their thoughts on what belongs to me."

"Homes?" Victoria repeated, still a bit dazed. "You have more than one?"

"Four, counting this one," Beckett said casually. "Three country homes throughout England. If I'm fortunate I'll acquire several foreign residences as well. Important for business, you understand."

Victoria was too shocked even to nod. "I don't think I realized how bloody rich you were until this moment," she said finally.

Beckett threw back his head and laughed brilliantly at that. "Not so upset to be marrying me now, are you?" he asked.

"No, I'm still upset," she replied, "But living in such luxury will admittedly ease the pain of being your wife."

"I think I should be insulted," Beckett said mildly, still grinning. "Ah, well; come inside, then. You'll find the rest of the house quite to your taste, I imagine."

* * *

Indeed, the house _was_ quite to Victoria's taste. Everything in it spoke of luxury and grandeur – and power. Oh, yes, if there was ever something her future husband appeared to love, it was power. He exuded a sense of greatauthority himself, and his house was no different. It all appeared carefully designed to alert whoever might be visiting that someone in control of a great many lives lived there. She felt small and inferior within its grandeur; in fact, Beckett was the only one who seemed at home in the place. Even Mercer appeared uncomfortable as Beckett showed off each new room to her. He shifted oddly from foot to foot and glanced idly around each room, standing stiffly at the center if he could. He was out of place here – and so was she.

She looked in vain for a sword that might potentially be Excalibur, but saw nothing of the sort within the house. There were many weapons to be found on display, of course, but nothing that appeared ancient enough to be the grand weapon Orson had described. Besides, she doubted Beckett would keep so valuable a thing in the open, where it would be unguarded.

She saw many secret places where the sword might have been kept, but she was not given the chance to look closely in any of those rooms. It occurred to her later in the tour that he might have taken it to one of his other homes, and she began to despair of ever finding it.

For the moment, she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to simply watch him closely and hope for the best.

After Beckett had gotten her thoroughly lost within his house, he led her to his private chambers. Mercer stopped following them directly outside the door, and Beckett promptly closed the door behind them. Victoria's body tensed fearfully and she stepped out of Beckett's reach. "What are -?"

"Just showing you the rooms in which you will live," Beckett said easily, walking over to her and taking her arm. "There are five rooms in this suite; this is a small opening parlor in which I take personal guests." He led her through another door. "This would be my office; it's adjoined directly to my bedroom." Another door. "This would be where I sleep," he said with a small smile, motioning to a very large four-poster bed. "The servants are working on your bed as we speak." He motioned to a door to the left side of the room. "That room has a tub in it for bathing," he said. "There are no windows and no other door besides the one leading into it, but you'll forgive me if I leave the door open while you're within. I wouldn't want you building some sort of weapon and using it to kill either me or yourself, now would I?"

Victoria wanted to scream in frustration, but instead she motioned to the door to the right. "And that room?" she asked.

Beckett stiffened. "My personal study," he said severely, "Which you are never to enter."

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Is that where you keep the bodies of your enemies?" she asked teasingly.

"Something to that effect," Beckett said without a trace of humor. Abruptly he turned away. "Come," he said sharply. "There will be food waiting for us in the dining room."

Victoria was so relieved that she ignored Beckett's odd behavior and started to follow him out without considering the potential significance of the study. Being alone with Beckett in a room with a bed – and having only recently heard exactly what he intended of her once she was his wife – was beyond unnerving.

Beckett stopped quite suddenly in the door between the bedroom and his office, as though something had just occurred to him. "Actually…" he said, taking a step back into the room and closing the door. Victoria took several steps backward, her entire body tensing fearfully as he turned to face her with a most wicked smirk.

"Something you forgot?" Victoria asked.

Beckett took one more step towards her. She took five steps back. Her apparent fear only seemed to amuse him; he took another step, and again she moved back several steps, only to find herself hitting one of the posts of the bed. She dodged aside from it with wide eyes, looking from the bed to Beckett with considerable fright.

Beckett grinned. "It doesn't bite, you know," he said, motioning towards the bed as though inviting her to sit. If that was indeed his intent, she rather violently rejected the invitation. She moved swiftly across the room, back towards the door.

"Somehow I wouldn't be surprised if it did," she said, nervously tossing a golden curl over her shoulder. "You mentioned food."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Victoria lied.

"Liar," Beckett said calmly. "I've no idea why you'd lie about such a simple thing. You know, Miss Thorne, I believe this is the first time we've been alone in almost three weeks."

The abrupt change in topics confused her, but she was fully on her guard. "As I recall, I didn't like it much then, either," she replied. "Can we go now?"

"Of course, we were at _your_ house last time," Beckett continued, walking very close to her and raising a hand contemplatively to her throat. His fingers casually stroked her neck, pausing over her throbbing pulse, which beat rapidly beneath his hand. He smiled a cold, terrible smile as he noted her fear. "It's a bit different here, isn't it?" he said in a deathly soft voice.

"Cutler…" Victoria whispered pleadingly, "Don't…"

He leaned forward and lightly planted a kiss on her cheek. "Don't… what?" he breathed in her ear, one arm snaking around her waist and tugging her against him. "Don't tell me the daring Victoria is _afraid_…"

Her heart was beating hard against her ribcage. "Cutler, _please_," she whimpered.

He tilted her chin up and kissed her directly on her mouth. The instant his lips met hers she gave a tiny cry, but she already knew it was useless to try and fight; they were in his house, after all, and none would dare intervene in Lord Beckett's private affairs – even, she thought sourly, if she were to scream for help. And anyway, he had by that point firmly pressed her against the wall; there was no way she was going to slip away from him. Nonetheless, the instant he made to part her lips she violently wrenched her head out of his grasp. "What in God's name are you doing?" she demanded.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Kissing you," he said, "Which I should think would be quite obvious."

"You have no right," Victoria spat.

He used his free hand to point to himself. "Husband," he said, annoyed.

"Not bloody yet, you're not," Victoria retorted.

"Funny," Beckett noted with a rather nasty glare, "That hardly seemed to matter when it was Orson kissing you."

"You," she said icily, "Are _not_ Orson."

"And we can all praise God for that," Beckett said scathingly. "I'm not nearly as stupid as that worthless little bastard."

If Victoria hadn't been pressed so firmly between Beckett and the wall, she might have punched him. "Don't you dare -!"

She had fully intended to defend Orson's intelligence, but Beckett didn't give her the chance. He caught her chin with his free hand and held her still, permitting him to kiss her again. She growled angrily at the forced touch and started to struggle, but she didn't have to fight – at precisely that moment, a maid bustled into the room. "Lord Beck – oh," she said, stopping and flushing as Beckett jerked back from Victoria.

Victoria pitied the poor maid. She had never seen Beckett give anyone so cold a look in her entire life.

The maid curtsied deeply and backed through the door a safe distance. "My apologies, sir," she mumbled. "I thought you ought to know that dinner's prepared and waiting downstairs."

Beckett said nothing in response; his stony silence spoke louder than anything he ever could have said. The maid swallowed nervously and murmured, "Really, I'm sorry, I didn't…" She trailed off, turned, and fled out the door.

Beckett glared after her momentarily – long enough for Victoria to slip under his arm and out the door. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" he snarled, pursuing her with surprising speed.

Victoria quickened her pace and practically ran through the two rooms barring her from her freedom. She threw open the door to the corridor outside Beckett's chambers with a loud bang – and ran directly into Mercer. "A damn fine chaperone you are!" she said furiously, smacking Mercer on the arm with surprising strength. She stormed past him down the stairs as Beckett stopped in the door to his chambers. She was out of sight before either of them could say anything.

"Thank you, Mercer, for failing once again to stop my fiancé from fleeing," Beckett said sarcastically. "I certainly do appreciate your lack of vigilance today."

Mercer glanced at his arm. "She hit me!" he said, sounding rather taken aback.

Beckett rolled his eyes and stomped down the stairs past Mercer, his rage radiating from him. Servants literally seemed to dive out of his way as he passed them; they did not want to be the recipient of his anger.

Mercer rubbed the sore spot on his arm, then loped after the livid duo. "I take it things didn't go as you'd hoped?" he said when he caught up with Beckett.

Beckett grimaced. "Oh, believe me, Mercer - you've no idea…"


	7. Interference

Edmond Thorne loved his sister.

Granted, this wasn't an altogether surprising thing; the two were close in age and had spent much time together as children. And besides, he was a brother. Most brothers adored their sisters.

But Edmond has always been quicker to note other men's interests in Victoria than his two elder brothers, who treated her fondly but otherwise paid her little heed. Two years his senior, the lovely Victoria began to garner men's attention when he was still far too young to merit the opposite sex's admiration. He saw the way other men looked at her, and he felt a fierce need to protect her from their hungering gazes. Thus far, Victoria had done a fine job of fending off every suitor; he had been required to do nothing.

Now, there was Beckett.

From Beckett's first visit, Edmond had looked into his eyes and had seen that Beckett was determined to break his sister. And there was no way in hell that Edmond was going to permit that.

Until that day, Victoria had still been safely within Edmond's reach. She had lived at home - had, indeed, been locked away there – but now Beckett had stolen her. He had taken her away and locked her up in _his_ home – and Edmond knew what was likely to happen should Victoria be forced to stay with Beckett too long.

Still, Edmond was young; there was little he could do in the face of such a powerful man. He knew he would have to enlist some help if he wanted to save his sister from ruination.

That was the reason he was standing on the doorstep of the Wellington mansion, nervously waiting for the butler to answer the door. If anyone could keep Beckett from becoming too friendly with Victoria, it was Rosemary.

The door to the Wellington home swung open, a tall and sedate man in a long white wig answering.

"I'm here to see Miss Wellington," Edmond said, folding his hands behind his back.

The butler raised an eyebrow, looking Edmond over clinically. Edmond suddenly realized why the butler might be eyeing him in such a way. "It's not… I'm not here to… _see_ her," he spluttered, "I merely wish – I have an issue to bring up with her."

The butler raised both eyebrows and turned away, clearly disbelieving Edmond's words. "Who shall I say is calling, sir?"

"Edmond Thorne," Edmond said quickly.

The butler turned back in surprise. "Won't your sister be a bit displeased with both of you?" he asked, then promptly had the decency to look abashed. "Forgive me, Mr. Thorne, I spoke out of turn," he said apologetically. "Please do enter. I shall inform Miss Wellington of your arrival."

Edmond watched the butler depart the drawing room, glaring nastily after him. He wasn't here to experience Rosemary's lavish sexual attentions – popular though they may have been, and as little as he minded the thought. He had important business to discuss with her…

Fortunately, Rosemary didn't keep him waiting. "Eddie, darling," she said with a broad smile as she sailed into the room. He drew in his breath sharply. Rosemary never failed to stun him with her beauty or her grace. Her dark hair had been left down today – she apparently had no intentions of going out – and she wore a lavender dress that, as usual, was cut scandalously low. "I wondered when you'd finally decide to visit me."

"I hate to disappoint you, Rose, but it's not that sort of visit," Edmond said in amusement.

Rosemary pouted. "Oh, come now, Eddie, you're far and away old enough to be with a woman," she said. "And wouldn't it be best to have that first tender experience with someone you know and trust?"

"Just because my sister trusts you doesn't mean I do," Eddie replied with a lopsided grin. "And anyway, Tori would kill us – or at least you – if ever I were to take advantage of such a generous offer."

"Pssh," Rosemary snorted, waving a hand. "Tori would rather you be with me than any other woman – save Cat, of course. By the way, how _is_ the future Mrs. Beckett?"

Edmond grimaced. "_Please_ don't say that," he requested. "It makes me ill to hear my sister referred to in such a way. They're not engaged yet, you know."

"They might as well be," Rosemary said matter-of-factly. "Not that I like the man any more than you do, but I do have to admire his persistence. I don't believe there's another man alive who could tame Tori's wild soul."

"A husband shouldn't have to tame her," Edmond said angrily. "He should accept and love her for what she is."

"I hate to say it, Eddie, but Tori's wild soul is precisely what makes Beckett want her," Rosemary informed him. "But on to less depressing topics of conversation. What brings you to my humble abode?"

Edmond looked around and laughed. "You believe this place humble?" he said, noting the lavish furnishings, rich carpets, and gorgeous paintings on the walls. Rosemary's father was a Lord, and they were undeniably wealthier than the Thornes. Under typical circumstances this did not bother Edmond, but it struck him full force whenever he followed Victoria on her visits to the Wellington manor.

"Humble compared to some – Beckett, for one," Rosemary replied. "You didn't answer my question."

"Coming to see you isn't enough of a reason?"

Rosemary laughed musically, throwing her head back as she did so. Her bare throat was exposed to him, her long dark hair thrown in a stunning wave over her shoulders. Edmond blushed as he felt an aching want starting to grow.

She stopped laughing, her hair falling like a silky mahogany curtain over her face as she looked at him with a smile. "If you'd really come just to see me, you most certainly would have accepted my offer when I first entered the room," she said, eyes sparkling in amusement. "No, really, Eddie, what do you want? Does your sister send you as an emissary?"

Edmond's eyes darkened. "I only wish she did," he said, "But I've not seen her today. She slipped past our Company guards this morning. Beckett was… not pleased."

Rosemary flinched. "I can imagine," she sighed. "Did they find her?"

"'Course they did. I swear, that Mr. Mercer is deadly," Edmond said, and he couldn't keep the note of admiration from his voice. "He tracked her down within a few hours."

Rosemary wrinkled her nose. "Ah, yes," she said in disgust, "Mr. Mercer. We don't get along very well, him and me."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Edmond said hurriedly. "Once they'd found her, Beckett stopped by our house to speak with my father, and now he has her on house arrest --"

"What's different about that?"

"--at his house and not ours," Edmond finished. "She's to live with him until the whole pirate kidnapping issue settles down."

"_What?_" Rosemary's eyes flashed dangerously at this news. "Please tell me she has a chaperone."

"Mr. Mercer."

"He is _not_ a chaperone!" she said fiercely. "I won't let Beckett get away with this."

"I knew you wouldn't!" Edmond cried triumphantly.

Rosemary began to pace around the room, slowly and ponderously. "Eddie," she said finally, "You know of my father's house in the country?"

"Yes…" Edmond looked quizzically at her, not sure why her country house would be of any importance.

"I can convince my father to let me visit, so long as I have a male chaperone who is a close friend of the family to watch me," she said. "Do you think your parents will permit you to chaperone two young ladies?"

Edmond looked confused. "I'm not certain," he said. "I don't see how this is going to help Victoria."

"Don't you?" Rosemary asked, quirking an eyebrow. "If you and I – and Cat, of course – tell our parents we're to be gone for a month or so – and if you can forge your father's signature decently enough – we can convince Beckett that we've come to watch over Victoria as extra chaperones. Say your father is afraid that Victoria will be lonely without her friends or something to that effect. While we're present there will be absolutely nothing Beckett can do to Victoria."

"But we'll have to have at least a week to convincingly pack for a trip," Edmond pointed out, "And by the time a week or two has passed… Beckett could have done anything."

"All right, fine," Rosemary huffed, still considering. "I'll go myself, and I'll go at once. I can persuade my father to let me do anything. If it's just my country home I'm to visit he won't mind if I go alone. Just forge me that letter with your father's seal on it and bring it to me this evening. I'll force Beckett to permit me to stay with Victoria, and that will be the end of it." She nodded decisively, then continued, "Of course we'll want Cat to visit frequently."

"We will?" Edmond questioned, dazed by the brazenness of her plan.

"Oh, yes," Rosemary said with an impish grin, "To distract Mercer. He's a bit sweet on her, you know."

"I don't think Mr. Mercer can be sweet on anyone," Edmond said incredulously.

"Shows what you know," Rosemary replied.

Edmond shook his head. "Rose, it won't work," he said certainly. "Beckett won't permit you to just waltz into his house and stay there – not without making certain my father sent such an order."

Rose sighed melodramatically and flopped into a chair. "Well, there's got to be _something_ we can do," she said irritably. "I won't just leave her to Beckett."

Edmond shrugged elaborately. "I leave her care to you," he said. "You will know better than I what to do… but if I may assist you anyway, please let me know."

"I think this is something I ought to do on my own," she sighed, "But thank you anyway, dear." She noted his concerned frown. "Oh, don't worry, Eddie, I'll think of something," she said, rising and kissing his cheek. "We'll get Tori out of this yet. You'll see."

Edmond smiled, enjoying being so close to Rosemary. He was floating on air as she led him to the door and ushered him into the drive, and he remained in a daze until he at last arrived at home again.

* * *

Dinner was an extremely awkward affair, for both the servants and the master and future mistress of the house. Beckett continuously shot barbed glances across the table at Victoria, and she returned them with nearly as much venom. She also refused to speak even a little to anyone. Her obstinacy made Beckett's mood the blacker, and by the time the dishes were cleared he was ready to throttle his chosen bride. 

As soon as the servants had departed she leapt to her feet and started towards the door, trying to avoid being alone with Beckett for even the tiniest amount of time. Unfortunately for her, Mercer was standing guard by the door, and he stepped swiftly in front of it to impede her progress.

"Going somewhere, Miss Thorne?" Beckett inquired pleasantly.

"The gardens," she said with forced calm, her eyes burning into Mercer. Mercer was not in the slightest bit perturbed by her forthright gaze. "You mentioned earlier that they were quite the sight."

"It will be dark soon," Beckett said, rising and smoothing his frock coat in place. "Surely you do not intend to wander unaccompanied?"

"That is, in fact, exactly what I intended," she stated.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't permit it," Beckett informed her, coming to stand directly beside her. "You could be hurt and it would be long before any would notice."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd notice quite rapidly," Victoria said sardonically.

"This may surprise you, Miss Thorne, but I have other things on my mind besides you." He offered his arm to her, the paragon of a charming gentleman. "Please, indulge me," he said.

Damn him. If she hadn't known what a cold-blooded bastard he was, the almost pleading look he was giving her might have made her heart melt.

She slid her arm through his, her eyes frigid. "As you wish it, my Lord," she said bitterly.

He smirked – once again, he had won. "Mr. Mercer, if you would?" Beckett said, raising an eyebrow.

Mercer bowed slightly and followed them as they departed the room – the chaperone for their walk. Around the servants, there at least had to be some small sense of propriety – otherwise the ludicrousness of this situation would get too far out of hand for even Beckett to handle.

Beckett led her out a back door onto an incredibly lavish terrace – large enough to be outdoor ballroom itself. It was decorated with all sorts of beautiful flowers in lovely planters. There were stone benches neatly spaced around the edges of the terrace, lest anyone should wish to sit. The veranda looked out onto one of the largest and most lavish gardens that Victoria had ever seen. Her breath caught in her throat as Beckett led her across the lawn and into the entrance.

"I chose the plants and their places in the garden myself," he boasted to her as she looked about her.

"I'd no idea that you wished to be a simple gardener," she said absently.

He chuckled. "Not so, my dear," he replied, "I simply like to be in control of all that I own."

That brought Victoria back to earth. "Then I expect you shall wish to be in control of me?" she said heatedly.

"Naturally."

Her eyes narrowed. "You can't rule me, Cutler," she told him.

"You don't think so, do you?" he questioned. "I've bent you to my bidding more than any other aristocrat ever has. Lord Webb, for one, would never have survived two months of courting you. But you see, Victoria, I understand you – because we're alike, we pair."

"I don't believe that for an instant," she said vehemently.

"I am _most_ aware of that," he said regretfully. "However much you may wish to deny it, we _are_ similar."

"Do enlighten me, my Lord," she said contemptuously.

"You're stubborn as hell – as am I," he pointed out. "You don't obey others well but command your own authority instead. You have a head for business, just as I do. You are absolutely unforgiving in your judgments of others. You're obsessed with pirates."

"You're not obsessed with pirates," Victoria snapped.

"Yes, I am," Beckett said irritably. "You're obsessed with living with them; I'm obsessed with killing them."

"And you call that a similarity?" she cried.

"It's obsession, isn't it?"

"And you, my Lord, are obsessed with me," she said, "Whereas I can hardly qualify as being obsessed with you."

"You're obsessed with avoiding me," Beckett commented. "It hardly matters. We're quite the same, you and I. And from the way we fight, we might as well be married."

Victoria jerked her arm from Beckett's with a violent wrench. "I'm going inside," she said frigidly, turning and rushing off in the opposite direction. Mercer glanced at Beckett to see if he should stop her, but Beckett simply shook his head.

"Let her go," he sighed. "She's had enough for one day, and, quite frankly, so have I."

"You'll still have to get her to bed," Mercer noted, raising an eyebrow.

Beckett grimaced. "Please don't remind me," he said tightly.

"You could always let her sleep in one of the guest chambers."

"And allow her to escape again? I think not." Beckett strode purposefully across the lawn towards the house, Mercer loping after him. "I have a great deal of work to do tonight," he said. "Make certain Victoria gets to sleep at a decent hour and ensure she has someone there to watch her until I retire. Do it yourself, preferably, but if you absolutely must get some sleep, send for one of my soldiers. Try to avoid the maids; they'll be sympathetic to her cause and will be more likely to let her out."

"May I assume you'll be in your office, then, sir?"

"You may." Beckett walked through the terrace doors that Victoria had left thrown wide open when she ran in. Beckett closed them firmly and locked them after Mercer had passed through them. "Let's hope that being well-rested will at least slightly cure her of her disagreeable temperament," he said with a glower.

Mercer chuckled. "That I doubt, sir," he said. "That I most certainly doubt."

* * *

Mercer proved to be correct. No matter how well rested Victoria may have been, she was as disagreeable as ever and infinitely difficult to manage. When Beckett was at work in his office she would barricade herself in his bedroom, locking the door against him should he choose to enter. Unfortunately, Mercer was her permanent shadow and no matter where she hid away he followed. 

Two weeks passed with no sign of rescue from the outside world. Victoria slowly began to fall into a certain routine: she would wake up slowly and lazily every morning, long after Beckett had left the room to work in his office. She would bathe and dress (with Mercer always standing awkwardly nearby); she would eat breakfast; she and Beckett would take a walk through his sprawling gardens; they would get in a ridiculously loud shouting match, which inevitably ended with Victoria storming off to the library and hiding there for the remainder of the afternoon. When both had finally cooled down somewhat, they would have dinner in somewhat chilly silence, and then go for a second walk, which would end once again in a fight. Victoria would storm up to bed and fall asleep after crying for nearly half an hour; Beckett would sit moodily in his office and ferociously work his way through various documents important to the Company. When he was too exhausted to continue, he would go into his room and, after checking on Victoria to make certain she was asleep, he would undress and fall into bed.

And then the process would repeat itself again the next day.

It would have been tedious if not for the constant eruption of their tempers. The servants would stand out of the way but would listen gleefully while Victoria and Beckett shouted at each other about one thing or another and then would quietly continue about their business when the fight was over. Inwardly, of course, they were laughing at Beckett's frustration and Victoria's gall. She was young, so young – yet, even if she feared Beckett, she never harnessed her sharp tongue in his presence.

Three weeks, and the shouting began to tire both Beckett and Victoria. Four weeks, and Victoria had slipped into sullen silence, her eyes downcast at all times. Five weeks, and when Beckett made some small and slightly humorous remark she was quashing a tiny smile.

Everyone in the household knew: she was finally starting to give in.

Beckett's triumph was noticeable in that he did nothing to celebrate it. It was astonishing, considering his temperament, but his was a subtle and quiet victory – perhaps because he, more than anyone, was aware how easily his control over Victoria could be destroyed.

And that destruction began in that fifth week, just as it seemed that he would finally claim Victoria as his – and, in typical fashion and as promised, it was Rosemary who brought it about.

* * *

It was storming when Rosemary arrived, the worst downpour of that year. When the butler – a peculiar little man named Oscar Boddie – opened the door, he found Rosemary standing on the step soaked through to the bone, her dark purple dress heavy with water. When she stepped into the parlor, clutching her arms tightly about herself, she brought a great deal of that water in with her, dripping all over the carpet. "Sorry," she said a bit insincerely to the butler. "If this was any carpet but Beckett's, of course, I'd be the sorrier. But it'll dry out; at this rate I think I'll be soaked forever." 

Oscar eyed her suspiciously, taking her drenched cape from her shoulders and wringing it out the door as he did so. "Seeing Beckett, hmmm?" he asked, shuffling around her to hand the wet cape to a maid.

"No, I'm here for Victoria," Rosemary said, shivering violently. "My carriage broke two wheels on the road and I've been walking for ages trying to find Beckett's – "

"Rose!"

Victoria hurtled into the parlor and embraced her friend despite her soggy clothes. "Madwoman!" she exclaimed when she took her in. "Did you walk all the way here from your house?"

"It feels as though I did," Rose snorted, pushing some strands of dark hair from her face. "I was staying at our country home for a month. Of course we tried to come back today, in the absolute worst weather, and the carriage broke two wheels. I'm bloody freezing!"

"Here," Victoria said, leading her friend up the stairs. "We'll take you to one of the guest rooms and prepare a hot bath for you. I'm sure we will find you some dry clothing. I'll have the maids start a fire for you, too; it would be terrible if you were to catch a chill."

"It may be a bit late for that," Rose said grumpily, but she followed Victoria up the stairs.

As they passed Beckett's chambers, the door opened and Beckett stepped out. "Miss Wellington?" he said in surprise.

"Her carriage broke down," Victoria explained. "She's freezing; I'll have the maids set up a room for her."

"And I," he said with considerable dislike, "Will send a message to her father informing him of her presence here so that he may retrieve her at his earliest convenience."

"But what if she's ill?" Victoria cried. "We should at least make certain she's not sick before we send her back!"

"Her home is not far from here," Beckett said assuredly. "She'll survive."

"Cutler," Victoria said sharply.

"Tori," he retorted.

She released Rosemary's arm and walked over to him, standing unnervingly close to him. "Cutler, please," she begged, her eyes very wide and innocent. "She's my friend; it would be terrible if she were to fall deathly ill at our hands."

Beckett growled angrily in the back of his throat, but said, "As you wish it, my Lady."

She smiled brightly and kissed him, astonishing both him and Rosemary. Then she flounced off, leading the stunned Rosemary towards a guest room.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Rosemary hissed as soon as they were out of Beckett's earshot. "I came not a minute too soon!"

Victoria looked at her in surprise. "What on earth do you mean?" she questioned.

"I'm here," Rosemary said, "To rescue you from that bastard's influence, and you should be praising God for that. He's begun to pin you under his thumb, if that little display back there says anything."

Victoria's eyes hardened. "Maybe if you hadn't waited over a month to stage your rescue he wouldn't have been quite so successful," she said, jerking open the door to one of the multiple guest chambers in the house. "You will stay in here," she said formally. "I'll send for a maid to see to your needs."

"Tori, wait!" Rosemary cried, surprised, but Victoria had already sailed out. She stood in the midst of the room, shivering and quite shocked. She had expected Victoria to be breaking, of course – but she hadn't realized how thoroughly Beckett would be able to crush her rebellious spirit in the space of five weeks. _Too long_, she thought, angry with herself. _I should have come sooner._

Of course, there'd been no storm such as this one in which to stage her arrival. She needed the storm if she was to play ill – and being ill would force her to remain here, where she could tear Victoria from Beckett's influence.

It was going to take a great deal more work than she'd expected – that was plain. But she was willing to take that risk. No matter what she'd promised Mercer, Beckett's attempts to win Victoria had gone far past the point of ridiculousness, and she was going to end it before her best friend became the wife of the East India Trading Company's head.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a maid entered the room, head hanging low. "Ma'am," she murmured as she bobbed a polite curtsy. She helped Rosemary out of her sopping clothes as another maid prepared a hot bath for her. Almost as soon as she was free of her wet garments, Rose hurtled towards the bath and leapt into it, sinking into the warm water in relief. It enveloped her cozily, as a warm blanket might, and she reveled in the feeling. She easily forgot about the manifold difficulties of her task – at least briefly – and when she finally slipped from the bath she was filled with a new optimism about wresting Victoria from Beckett.

There were warm and dry garments spread out for her in her bedroom, where a fire was now burning brightly. One of the maids assisted her as she dressed and then departed in completely silence. Feeling considerably better now that she was dressed and dry, Rosemary set off to find Victoria, hoping to remedy her friend's bad mood.

She nearly found herself severely lost amongst the maze of rooms in Beckett's expansive mansion. She might have wandered aimlessly for the rest of the evening if she hadn't heard Victoria's laugh echoing from one of the rooms down a corridor she was passing. She followed the sound of Victoria's voice until she arrived at the door behind which her friend seemed to be standing.

"… and what, exactly, did you tell her?" Victoria was asking. "You'd best have been careful what you said to her; you know what a terrible snitch she is."

"Yes, invaluably so," Beckett agreed. The sound of his aristocratic voice made Rosemary scowl; good God, how she loathed that man! "But I confess I most likely did not watch my tongue as I should have."

"Bloody hell," Victoria groaned. "What did she say?"

"Well, she wanted to know if it was true that I had you in my possession," Beckett said in amusement.

"She said it that way?"

"Yes, _exactly_ that way."

"Oh, God," Victoria sighed. "And how did you reply?"

"With the absolute truth, of course."

"That's not comforting, Cutler."

He laughed. "I simply told her that you were, in fact, currently residing in my house," he said.

"And tomorrow you will be hearing rumors that every night you chain me to your bed and perform all sorts of perversions upon me."

"No such luck, Miss Thorne," he said with a chuckle. "Mercer added that it was for your protection, and that you were kept in a separate wing of the house."

"You told me that you replied with the absolute truth," Victoria said accusingly. "And _that_ was most certainly a lie."

"I wasn't the one who said it; it was Mercer," Beckett retorted. "Anyway, she asked if I intended to marry you, and I told her that I thought my intentions should have been made quite clear by this point."

"So she knows you plan to marry me."

"She knows I _will_ marry you," Beckett corrected.

"You _plan_ to," Victoria said mildly. "I imagine she fell all over herself with excitement to get _that_ little tidbit of information."

"She did," he agreed. "Her friend didn't seem nearly as excited."

"Friend?"

"That dark haired little witch… what's her name? I don't remember. The Harris girl," he said dismissively.

"Charlotta?" Victoria cried. "Charlotta Harris?"

"What kind of a name is Charlotta?" Beckett snorted in response. "Yes, I suppose that's who it was."

"You do know she's had designs on you for months?" Victoria said.

Rosemary couldn't resist anymore; she slowly and quietly opened the door to the room. It was a small, intimate little room, with a couch and several chairs, a fireplace with a roaring fire, and walls lined with bookshelves – a smaller version of the library, perhaps Beckett's most personal collection of works. Or maybe Victoria's, now that she'd become so cozy with the lord of the house?

"Oh, really," Beckett was replying from a comfortable chair, sipping on a brandy and looking utterly bored. "Pity – for her. I've no interest in her."

"Yes, well, she refused to believe it so," Victoria said with a shake of her golden head. She stood in the middle of the room, the firelight reflecting off her hair. "She's practically planned your entire engagement celebration as well as your wedding."

"She'll have to use the plans for someone else," Beckett said, setting down his brandy glass and rising from the chair, "Because my designs remain solely focused on _you_."

He came uncomfortably close to Victoria and caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face upwards. _He's going to kiss her_, Rosemary thought indignantly. _And she's simply going to stand there and let him!_

He was a mere fraction away from touching his lips to Victoria's when Rosemary _ahem-_ed, loudly and indelicately. Both jerked back from each other, Beckett with a nasty glare and Victoria with flaming cheeks. "Rose," she said, flushing a very brilliant shade of pink. "I thought you might be sleeping."

Rose raised an eyebrow at her friend. "You've no business being here without a chaperone," she said, more to Beckett than Victoria.

"That's _hilarious_, coming from you," Beckett said hotly, "Considering how often gentlemen find themselves without a chaperone in _your_ presence."

"My choices have nothing to do with what's best for my friends," Rosemary replied calmly. "I was hoping to spend a little time with Tori – I haven't seen her in nigh a month, after all. You've had her holed up in this ridiculously huge fortress for far too long a time, and I imagine she wants some female company. May I borrow her?"

"No!" Beckett said furiously.

"Thank you," Rose said with a beam, walking into the room, firmly taking Victoria by the hand, and leading her out.

As soon as they were far enough away from the room, Victoria and Rose both burst out laughing. "Did you see his face?" Victoria gasped out.

"No, but I wish I had," Rose laughed. "Come on, let's go back to my room; I've so much to tell you! You've missed a great deal since you've been gone…"

* * *

Beckett had never liked Rosemary Wellington. 

There were an infinite number of gentlemen who disliked her, of course, but this was because all of them were jilted lovers whom she had feigned interest in and then promptly abandoned after her own wild cravings were sated. Beckett had never been the unfortunate victim of her advances, nor would he ever be; the two of them despised each other equally. They were both strong willed and stubborn, but where Beckett was rigid and disciplined, Rosemary was free and ran wild.

It was this lack of discipline that made him cringe each time he saw her. The total abandon in which she lived, her constant flirtations, her rejection of everything society had ordered that she be – it was too much. Beckett had learned how to subtly gain what he wished through subterfuge and manipulation. He acted as though he were constrained by society, lived by its commands, but broke the rules of morality in secret. Rosemary had no such subtlety, and it galled him.

That she and Victoria were friends was most unfortunate. Beckett had hoped to break the bonds of that friendship, but as Mercer had noted from the beginning, the two were nearly inseparable. There was no possible way that he could split them apart; they would always been drawn back together as magnets were.

He would have been able to accept this if Rosemary had generally avoided interfering in his courtship of Victoria (if courtship was even the correct word; 'domination' might have suited better). But it was not in Rosemary's nature to avoid situations that might potentially cause trouble, and she meddled whenever she could in this most important of Beckett's operations.

Her meddling finally shattered the fragile bond he had started to create with Victoria in her five weeks' time at his home. Rosemary, it became clear, had fallen quite ill after her little escapade in the rain, and Victoria insisted she remain at Beckett's mansion to be cared for. They argued for hours over it, the shouting matches that had ceased three weeks before returning with ugly ferocity. Finally, Victoria won – Beckett couldn't afford to appear any less decent than he already did, as he was seriously stretching the limits of society's acceptance by living with Victoria before he married her. The sole reason this was acceptable at all was that there appeared to be pressing need for her to be taken away from home – for her own safety. If not for Orson's attack and Victoria's subsequent flight he would never have had such an opportunity.

And it was beyond painful to him to watch as all his careful work was completely crushed by Rosemary's rebellion.

First, she manipulated him into giving Victoria her own room. Perhaps she did this unintentionally; she had innocently inquired about where Victoria slept, so that if she needed anything she could bother her friend for it instead of trying to find a servant, or worse, Beckett himself. Victoria had been quite ready to tell Rosemary that she was staying in Beckett's room, but Beckett couldn't let word of that get about the upper circles of society. He had quickly interrupted and showed Rosemary to a cleanly laid out set of guest chambers, then promptly moved Victoria there when Rosemary returned to her room for a nap. "This is only temporary," he warned Victoria as the dresses he had had ordered fitted for her were being housed inside the room's wardrobe. "As soon as that whore is gone you will be under my personal protection every single night."

To compensate, Mercer stood guard every night in her room. He slept for a few precious hours in the morning while Beckett kept Victoria entertained; then, mildly refreshed, he would start his guarding duties all over again. Mercer had found learning how to operate on little sleep invaluable in his line of work, and he was no less watchful for lack of rest.

Rosemary found all sorts of subtle ways to insult Beckett, small jibes that left him wanting to beat her into a bloody pulp, or at least watch while Mercer did it for him. Her snide courage – if it could be called that – encouraged Victoria's former aloofness, and she no longer ducked her head to smile when she saw him nor did she pause to speak with him. She regularly cut short their walks with the excuse that she had to tend to her guest, occasionally skipping the walk all together to spend time with Rose. Soon she was like a ghost, flitting through the house, seen only in glimpses and never fully in the flesh.

This _had_ to cease. And Beckett knew just the man to help him…


	8. A Gift and a Legend

Lord William Presbery owed Lord Cutler Beckett a favor.

He'd wanted to forget that fact for quite some time, as the situation that had found him with said favor owed was less than pleasant to his memory. Besides, it had left him indebted to Beckett – and nobody who knew anything of Cutler Beckett wanted that.

Needless to say, then, he was less than pleased when Beckett's lavish carriage appeared in front of his house. He had rather hoped to avoid fulfilling the dreaded favor for as long as possible – if Beckett needed something from him, it was bound to be unpleasant. However, he made at least the appearance of being a gracious host. Presbery, a born and bred aristocrat through and through, was never impolite and never revealed his true feelings to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

So he met Beckett in the parlor with the utmost courteousness – a wise choice, because if Beckett had felt slighted or insulted in any way, he would most certainly have been sure to destroy Presbery's standing in society, slowly and painfully. Presbery had seen it done before; he did not wish to be the victim of such ferocity.

"Lord Beckett," he said with a smile as he entered the parlor, extending his hand to the diminutive lord. "How do you do?"

"Not well, Presbery," Beckett said, surprisingly blunt. "Not well at all."

"I'm… sorry to hear that," Presbery said, a bit taken aback.

"Don't feel it necessary to fall on the ground and lick my boots," Beckett said in mild amusement. "I hardly imagine you would do such a thing were I anyone else."

Presbery had to agree with that. "What is it you want from me, Beckett?" he asked, still smiling amiably.

"You, my friend, owe me a favor."

"So I do," Presbery sighed. "I'd almost hoped you'd forgotten. All right, Beckett, what terrible chore have you got planned for me?"

Beckett chuckled. "If only you knew," he said. "I am in desperate need of some assistance in a matter in which I am afraid you know more than I."

Presbery raised an eyebrow. "Now that's a surprise," he said. "I wouldn't expect you to admit that I might perhaps know more than you in any subject area."

Beckett smiled grimly. "One can't be perfect, though one _can_ come frighteningly close," he said.

Presbery did not voice his thoughts on this particular comment. "What exactly do you need my assistance with, my Lord?" he asked.

"A woman," Beckett said.

Presbery raised both eyebrows this time. "A woman?" he repeated.

"Her name is Rosemary Wellington," Beckett said, his tone plainly revealing his dislike of the woman in question. "Perhaps you've heard of her."

"The Lady Whore?" Presbery questioned. "The tigress that tears out the hearts of men and feasts on them for her breakfast?"

"Yes, _that_ one," Beckett said, too frustrated with the woman herself to note the humor of Presbery's description. "That bloody little wench has gotten in my way far too many times. She's stationed herself in my house – in _my_ house, Presbery – and has been insinuating herself between me and my fiancé."

"Ah, so you _are_ engaged to Victoria Thorne!" Presbery exclaimed

"I will be," Beckett said calmly, "As soon as Rosemary gets the hell out of my house."

Presbery looked mildly confused, but decided the wisest course of action was not to ask further questions. "So, what exactly do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to seduce her," Beckett said matter-of-factly. "I want you to woo her, court her, draw her from my house – keep her from my house for a good three months at least – and once that's done with, do whatever you choose with her."

"You want _me _to attempt to seduce the Queen of Seduction herself?" Presbery repeated incredulously. "You can't be serious."

"You're the only man I believe capable of such a thing."

"I may also be the only man who owes you a favor."

"You know that's not true," Beckett said scornfully.

Presbery rolled his eyes. "Very well," he said. "I may be the only good looking man who owes you a favor."

Beckett chuckled wryly. "Now _that_ may be true," he conceded. "I considered asking Lawless to keep her away from me and mine, but..."

Presbery's eyes narrowed. "There's not a woman alive who would want that man," he said harshly.

"Oh really?" Beckett said, sounding mildly (and falsely) surprised. "Because he and Rosemary have had relations in the past – several times, actually. His apparent durability is one reason why I had thought to select him instead of you."

"Even you can't be so cruel as to inflict such a fate upon a woman," Presbery said.

"I most certainly can be," Beckett replied, "Especially if the woman in particular is that worthless, miserable little tramp."

"You really do hate her, don't you?" Presbery said in amazement.

"With a ferocity you cannot even begin to imagine. Do you accept, or not?"

"Do I have a choice? I do owe you a favor, after all."

"I can save it for another occasion and use Lawless instead. My sources tell me he'd be _more_ than willing."

Presbery shuddered. "I can't condemn any woman to three months with that rapacious, lustful bastard," he said, "Not even the Lady Whore. I'll do my best."

"You'd better," Beckett said darkly, "Or there _will_ be consequences."

Presbery flinched. "Yes, my Lord," he murmured. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the consequences might be – nor did he wish to – should he fail…

* * *

When Beckett returned from visiting Presbery, he was in a mood far lighter than he had been for the past few weeks. Rosemary's intrusion on his life and the shattering of his control over Victoria had been most frustrating for him, but he had found a way to recover what he'd lost, and damn quickly, too. He thought he deserved to celebrate a little on this most fortuitous occasion.

As soon as he returned home, he went in search of Victoria and Rosemary – they were doubtless together. He'd left them alone to at least give the semblance of politeness, but it had been several weeks, after all, and he _was_ courting Victoria. He had every right to request some time alone with her. Well, alone with her and Mercer, he corrected himself – for Mercer would have to be nearby; otherwise Rosemary was certain to use that as an excuse to tear Victoria away from him again.

He found them at last in the little library he had dictated was to be for Victoria's use. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, as it was pouring rain outside once again and a bit chilly. The two women were seated close the fire, sipping tea and chattering happily about one of Rosemary's many conquests. Mercer was the only person in the room who noticed Beckett enter. He nodded politely to his master and raised an eyebrow, as though inquiring as to how Beckett's meeting had gone. Beckett smiled serenely in response, then announced himself by coming up behind Victoria and laying his hands on her shoulders.

Victoria stiffened and jerked around to face him. "My lord," she said frigidly, eyes narrowing at the sight of him.

He smirked. "_My_ lady," he replied; the emphasis on _my_ was not lost on his reluctant future wife. "Much as I hate to interrupt such a lively discussion, I'm afraid I'd like to borrow you for the afternoon."

"Surely you wouldn't steal away my caretaker for an entire afternoon?" Rosemary questioned innocently, eyes wide. "I am still quite ill, you know…"

"Oh, obviously," Beckett said derisively. "But there are several well-trained maids within the household who know the art of healing far better than Miss Thorne. She _does_ make for the most charming company, though, doesn't she?" His hand slid none-too-innocently up her neck, caressing her throat and moving to cup her cheek. "Which is precisely the reason why I'd like to borrow her," he continued, his other hand clenching, vice-like, about Victoria's upper arm. "You've been most selfish, Miss Wellington, keeping her from the man courting her for so long. Didn't you ever learn to share?"

"Not with cruel, cold-blooded bastards like yourself," Rosemary said hotly, infuriated at Beckett's display of power over Victoria and even more aggravated that Victoria was doing nothing to stop him.

"Temper, temper," Beckett said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "For shame, Miss Wellington; what would your father say, to hear that you had treated your host in such a manner?" He tugged, and Victoria stumbled from the chair to his side, quickly finding his arm wrapped firmly about her waist. "I'm afraid we must leave you," he said cheerfully, turning away, "But if you should need anything, call for one of the maids. Mercer?"

"Coming, sir," Mercer said, stepping from the shadows and moving to follow Beckett out. He glanced significantly at Rosemary, as though telling her to stay exactly where she was _or else_, then followed Beckett and Victoria out of the room in long strides.

Rosemary had the sneaking sensation that she had just lost control of the situation.

* * *

"What do you want?" Victoria snarled as soon as they were far enough away from her little library.

"You, obviously," Beckett said with a smirk. "What else?"

"If you touch me -!"

"Forgive me, my dear, but in case you hadn't noticed, I _am_ touching you," he said, nodding to his hand at her waist.

Victoria frowned, green eyes narrowed into evil-looking slits. "You're in fine form," she said. "Something's put you in a good mood."

"The successful closure of what I believe will be a most fruitful business transaction," Beckett said happily. "And I thought I would celebrate by spending a bit of time with you. I have so missed your fiery temper and constant ridicule."

"Bastard," Victoria muttered. Mercer noted that she was biting the corner of her lip to stop a smile.

"Oh, please. I know you can do better than _that_," Beckett snorted.

"Do you now, you arrogant self-centered prig?" Victoria fired back.

"Much better," he said with a satisfied grin. "Now, I had thought to take a carriage ride through the country, but unfortunately it's pouring rain, leaving us relatively few options. However, I do happen to have a very remote little house in the midst of the gardens where I think we shall be secluded enough."

"Secluded enough for what?" Victoria cried in alarm, coming to an abrupt halt until Mercer walked up behind her and began pushing her firmly forward

"Nothing _too_ scandalous," Beckett assured her.

"_Too_ scandalous?" Victoria repeated nervously. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Is it wrong to want to speak with your fiancé in peace?" Beckett asked.

"First of all, I'm not your fiancé," Victoria said crossly.

"It's adorable how you refuse to face the inevitable," Beckett told her.

Victoria wanted to smack him for that, but he caught her wrist in his hand as she spun to hit him. He lightly kissed the palm of her hand and moved to its back until she jerked it away. "Secondly," she said, feeling rather too flustered to address the first comment any longer, "Men do not typically take women they intend to marry to secluded little houses on their property unless they desire something very specific and _very_ scandalous."

"As much as I might like to, Tori, I don't plan to make love to you," Beckett said in amusement. "At least, not today. Of course, my plans could change rather rapidly…"

"Cutler!"

"Tori!" he mocked, looking falsely affronted. "We both know that maintaining your innocence before marriage is no longer an issue. Orson already took his pleasure with you several times."

"I have no intention of allowing you to do the same," Victoria said icily.

"You've made that abundantly clear, Miss Thorne," Beckett sighed. "But it's only a matter of time before you change your mind…"

He threw open the terrace door and started across the lawn towards the gardens. The rain was still pouring down, but he seemed oblivious to it. "I love rain," he said, a wide grin crossing his normally carefully controlled face.

"I hate it," Victoria said sullenly. In truth, she loved the rain too; there was something about it that drew her, even though its dreariness should have depressed her. She was loath to admit this to Beckett – their argument about their similarities remained fresh in her mind even though it was long in the past.

Beckett glanced at her with a wicked sort of gleam in his eye. "No, you don't," he said. "You wrote an entire five pages about rain in your diary last week."

"You read my diary?" Victoria shrieked, enraged.

He smirked. "You didn't seriously think I wouldn't?" he said. "I can learn a great deal about you from what you write when you think no one will read."

"Bloody hell!" Victoria snarled. "Is there nothing I can call my own?"

"Nothing," Beckett replied matter-of-factly. "Everything you have – and everything you are – belongs to me. You would be wise not to forget it." He made to take her arm, but she tore it from him with a violent wrench.

"I'm going back inside," she said, choking back several very callous insults. "This time we've spent together has been too much for me already. I'd forgotten what a spiteful, controlling monster you are."

She turned to go, but Mercer was calmly standing in her path. He motioned idly with his hand, indicating that she should turn back around again. Stubbornly, she made to walk around him – but before she could pass him, his arm snaked out, caught her around the waist, and jerked her back against him. "Shall I carry her, sir?" Mercer asked, raising one eyebrow in a questioning glance.

Beckett chuckled. "Yes, do," he said.

At that Mercer swept her off the ground and threw her over his shoulder like so much baggage, despite her scream of protest. She immediately starting to kicking and shrieking, pounding her fists into Mercer's back – but her efforts were in vain. He started off towards the garden without batting an eye, as though she were not hitting him at all, as though he wasn't even carrying her. Beckett followed behind the pair with a depraved little grin on his face. "This ought to be amusing," he said, more to himself than to either Mercer or Victoria.

Victoria paused in her howling to look at Beckett, her golden hair starting to tumble from its pins in messy curls, framing her face quite nicely – if, of course, her face hadn't been so brilliantly red. "This is completely undignified!" she cried. "Put me down at once!"

Beckett cocked an eyebrow at her. "Will you agree to be reasonable?"

Mercer stopped in his tracks at these words, glancing over his opposite shoulder at Beckett as they awaited Victoria's answer.

"Will you agree to cease being a priggish ass?" she snapped in reply.

"Carry on, Mercer," Beckett said, waving his hand idly.

Victoria gave another scream of fury, returning to her former occupation of kicking and beating at Mercer as he started off again. This pursuit proved fruitless, and finally she stopped, hands clutching frantically at Mercer's coat lest he drop her. "So you admit that you're a priggish ass?" she said after a moment, looking up at Beckett through her now completely displaced blonde hair.

"Shut up, wench," Beckett ordered, looking considerably perturbed. "Left, Mercer."

"I know where I'm going," Mercer replied, vaguely annoyed. He turned sharply to the left, jostling Victoria in the process. She cried out sharply, hit Mercer hard with a closed fist, and then collapsed limply over his shoulder, completely defeated.

"God," she moaned, "Why me?"

"God knows that you are destined to be my wife, and is merely attempting to uncover your eyes so that you will see it," Beckett told her.

"I always knew God hated me," Victoria grumbled. The comment made Mercer laugh, which in turn made Victoria bounce. "Damn it, Mercer, can you at least try to keep me from being jostled all about?" she snarled.

This only made Mercer laugh more. "Just wait 'til we've reached the house," he said. "Then you'll find yourself being jostled quite more than you are now."

His tone of voice clearly implied things Victoria did not want to consider. "What are you insinuating?" she cried. She looked up again. "Cutler!"

Beckett wore his most innocent face. "What?" he inquired, eyes wide. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Miss Thorne."

"Miserable, lily-livered, diseased little bastard!" she shrieked in rage. "You're a liar and an ass and someday you'll be rotting in hell!"

"I trust I'll see you there, then," Beckett laughed. "Ah, here we are."

"You will _not_ see me in – oh!" Mercer had stopped and then promptly dropped Victoria in an unceremonious little bundle onto the wet and muddy ground. "Mercer!" she exclaimed angrily from her position on the ground.

He bent, caught her directly beneath her arms, and pulled her roughly to her feet. "There you are," he said, a demonic sort of glint in his eyes. "Better now?"

"I'm still wet," Victoria said crossly. As much as she loved the rain, she hated the feel of wet clothing on her skin.

Beckett caught her arm and turned her delicately about to face a small and cozy little cottage of sorts in the middle of the most incredible rose garden Victoria had ever seen. She drew in her breath sharply at the sight of the house, eyes widening at its simple beauty. It was like something out of a fairy tale, smothered in long vines bursting with the most beautiful blossoms and surrounded by a stunning array of rosebushes. She could hardly catch her breath.

"Cutler -!" she finally managed, one hand pressed to her chest in astonishment.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said softly, reaching up and pushing a gold curl from her face. "It's a gift – for you."

"_Me_?" she repeated breathlessly.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sort of laugh. "Consider it a wedding present," he said. "We quarrel so frequently, I thought a sort of retreat for you might not be so bad an idea. It used to be my retreat, when I needed to escape from life in the aristocracy."

She looked sharply at him. "_You_ needed to escape life in the aristocracy?" she said incredulously.

He wrinkled his nose. "You're not the only one who believes the aristocracy is full of pompous, ridiculously ignorant idiots," he said, "Much as you may think you are."

Victoria shivered slightly in the rain as it finally began to penetrate the layers of her dress into her undergarments. Beckett noted the shiver and quickly pulled her towards the house. "We ought to go in," he said. "In this rain you'll fall as ill as that… ah… _friend_."

Victoria noted his disdainful tone when he mentioned Rosemary. "Why do you despise her so much?" she asked as he opened the door to the small cottage and led her inside its dark interior.

"Too many reasons to name. Here, sit, I'll find you a blanket." He pushed her gently down onto a long divan and went off into the darkness. While he was off searching, Mercer cautiously lit a candle and then went about the room lighting the lanterns within.

"How long has this house been here?" Victoria asked, teeth chattering.

"Since the house was built, when Beckett first struck it rich with the Company," Mercer said. "He had it put here in case he ever needed to escape. There are several other small buildings like this on the property, but this one's his favorite. You're damn lucky he gave it to you."

Victoria rubbed her wet arms, considering this tidbit of information. "What does he use the other houses for?" she asked.

"Business meetings and the like. Nothing very interesting for a seventeen-year-old noblewoman."

"I happen to find business _very_ interesting," Victoria said irritably. "And anyway, I'll be eighteen in a week."

"Will you now?" Mercer said as he blew out the candle, having lit the last lantern in the room. "What day?"

"Next Wednesday," she replied, finally tucking her legs up about her body. "It's bloody cold here."

"I'll work on a fire," Mercer said, departing out the front door again. Victoria was left quite alone.

Unable to warm herself while sitting, she decided that some movement might help dry her out a bit. She was shifting, preparing to step off the divan, when she noticed something glinting on a table in the corner. She stood, walking towards it to get a closer look – and sharply drew in her breath.

It was a sword – a heavy sword with a thick blade sharpened on both sides and set with precious jewels in the hilt. A Celtic knot pattern swirled about the hilt, surrounding each of the jewels in an intricate design that left her breathless. It was obviously ancient, yet it bore no rust, no sign of the ages that had passed it by – it appeared almost as though it were brand new.

There was only one sword that it could be – and that was Excalibur.

_So it's true_, Victoria thought, eyes wide as she reached out with trembling fingers to touch the blade. _It's really true_…

She paused, distracted. There were two other objects on the table – one, an elaborately woven girdle of sorts that was a stunning emerald green, and the other, a long strip of wood that was halfway whittled into the form of a cane. Her brow furrowed in mild confusion. What were these other objects, and why were they being kept in the same place as Excalibur?

"Don't touch that!"

Victoria drew back with a cry, nearly jumping a foot in the air. "Bloody hell, Cutler, you scared me," she gasped.

He moved quickly across the room to her, eyes narrowed as though he were carefully considering her. "Do you know what it is?" he asked harshly.

Victoria did her best to keep her emotions under control. "It's a sword?" she said, raising an eyebrow as though the question was the most foolish thing she had ever heard.

He visibly relaxed. "It's a very _ancient_ sword," he corrected, smiling easily now that he was convinced she did not know its significance. "Priceless, actually. I bought it at the gala that night Orson attacked you two months ago."

"And you've not sold it yet?" Victoria said in mock surprise.

"No one's offered a high enough price for it." He wrapped a soft, dry blanket around her shoulders, guiding her firmly away from the table. "But you'd best not touch it, lest you hurt yourself."

"More likely so that I don't ruin it somehow and destroy its value," Victoria remarked, following him as though the sword didn't intrigue her at all. "It's quite beautiful."

"I have an appreciation for objects of great beauty," Beckett replied. "Hence the reason I chose you as the future Lady Beckett."

"A dubious honor," Victoria said a bit sourly. "And I am _not_ an object."

"No, but that is how your sex is perceived," Beckett said simply.

"And so you see it thus, as well?" Victoria cried, starting to pull back from him.

"Don't put words in my mouth," Beckett said in exasperation, pushing her onto the divan again and sitting beside her. "Do you like the house?"

Victoria noted the switch in topics but opted not to address it. "It's lovely," she said. "A bit dark inside, but lovely. I'll need to fix it a bit to my tastes, of course."

"Of course," he agreed. "I'll remove any vestiges of my presence from here. And you'll hardly need all the items I've kept here to sell."

"Will you move the sword, too?" Victoria questioned, then flushed and bit her lip.

He glanced at her suspiciously. "Most certainly," he said. "Why do you care? I hardly think swords are the sort of décor a young woman wishes for in her retreat."

Victoria shrugged slightly. "I'm not like other women," she pointed out. "I think it's beautiful."

Beckett was plainly not convinced that this was all there was to her curiosity. "It will be removed," he said shortly. "It could fall and kill you or some other such thing, and we can't have that. Besides, I'm sure I'll find a buyer for it soon enough."

Victoria did her best not to look disappointed. "I assume you'll take it someplace safe," she hedged, hoping to learn a little more.

"Very safe," he said curtly. He tilted her chin upwards and smiled impishly at here. "We didn't come here to discuss merchandise, though, did we, my Lady?"

Victoria shuffled nervously away across the divan until she hit its arm. "I suppose not," she said in a small voice. "In fact, I've no idea what we came here for. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"

"Come here and I will."

The command made it quite plain why they'd come. "You said you wouldn't touch me!" she said accusingly.

"I believe that I told you I wouldn't make love to you," he corrected mildly, "And I won't – but only because I am most certain you won't permit me."

"I won't permit you anything else, either!" Victoria exclaimed.

"And you intend to stop me… how?"

"Where's Mercer?" Victoria suddenly asked, hoping it might divert his attention.

"I sent him on an errand," he replied, waving a hand to indicate that detail's insignificance. "He'll return to retrieve us later. Why? Don't you trust me?"

"I don't trust either of you," she spat. "Stay away from me!"

Beckett sighed, but made no move to come closer. "All right, fine," he said. "Have it your way." He paused. "By the way, Miss Whitlock sent a messenger here today. She requested permission to visit you sometime this week."

"She did?" Victoria said, brightening considerably. "That's wonderful!"

"I told her you were busy."

"You _what_?" Victoria cried.

Beckett smirked. "Seeing as you already have one guest and a doting suitor to attend to, you simply don't have the time for visits from anyone else."

"You can't do that!" she said furiously.

"Can't I? It's my house, after all."

"It's _my_ guest," she said through gritted teeth.

Beckett shrugged elaborately and looked away. "I am master of the house, therefore _I_ decide who comes and goes within it," he said.

"And if I told you your beloved fiancé will be depressed for weeks if she is not permitted to see her dearest friend?" Victoria asked. She hoped Beckett might give in if he felt a bit guilty, but the strategy backfired – quite badly.

"And if I told my beloved fiancé that I am quite perturbed with her and am not really in the mood to permit her anything?" he fired back. "Incidentally, my dear, you just admitted to being my fiancé."

"I did n – oh, _damn,_" Victoria moaned as she realized he was right.

He grinned broadly. "Seems you're quite out of luck, aren't you, Lady Beckett?" he said in satisfaction.

"Don't you _dare_ call me that!" Victoria snarled, temper flaring.

They sat in silence for a while. Then, a realization dawned – the bastard was subtly asking her to bribe him!

At first, she sat stewing in her own anger, glaring at him. He responded by completely ignoring her, staring calmly into the distance. She tried pouting, but he didn't respond to that either. Finally, she heaved a sigh and asked, "What would I have to do to make you change your mind?"

He turned to look at her with a leer. "There are any number of things you could do that might make me change my mind," he said. "You need merely try them."

"I suppose slapping you wouldn't help me much?"

"That would set you back so far that you'd have to make up for it with something _quite_ spectacular," Beckett told her, eyes narrowing.

"Something that would probably involve me removing all my clothing," Victoria said dispiritedly.

"That would probably make up for it, yes. If you want to slap me _that_ badly, then by all means, do. I'll expect to see you removing your dress the instant I look back at you, however."

"Pig," Victoria said in disgust. Instead of slapping him, however, she moved closer, tilted his head in her direction, and kissed him – _deeply_. If her mouth hadn't been so intimately pressed against his, Beckett would probably have gasped in shock. He hadn't actually expected her to respond to his subtle suggestion of bribery, and he certainly hadn't expected her to respond so – well – passionately.

She was _damn_ good. The pirate had taught her too well. For a girl as naïve as Victoria seemed, she could kiss like no other. He parted her lips, slid his tongue in her mouth, groaned when she reciprocated. _Gentleman, Cutler,_ he snapped at himself, _You are a proper gentleman, behave like one… oh, hell, why bother? She knows who you really are…_ He dragged her closer, one hand sliding into her hair and pressing her forward. She came closer, deepened the kiss, remained that way for a few moments – then neatly ended the kiss and pulled back.

She was glad she was as nimble as she was, because if she had been even a hair slower he would have caught her and forcefully pulled her back. As it was, she barely managed to jump out of his reach and off the divan. She backed away, eyeing him uneasily. He was looking at her, his normally unbreakable composure utterly gone. His eyes glinted, his posture tense and ready to spring; everything about him spoke of raw lust. "More," he ordered, his voice a low growl.

She shook her head rapidly, eyes wide. "No," she whispered fearfully. She had never inspired such a reaction in Orson, and she most certainly hadn't expected the normally cool, aloof Beckett to respond so violently to her. "No, no more."

He leapt to his feet, and Victoria scuttled back. One step towards her, and she was tearing across the room towards the door. She turned the handle and ripped it open, fleeing heedlessly into the rain. She hurtled through the many gardens and bushes, frightened tears mingling with the rain pounding down around her. By the time she stumbled out of the gardens, Mercer was returning from whatever errand he had been on. She ran directly into him, then clung to him like a drowning woman.

"Good God, Miss Thorne, what happened?" he asked sharply as she hung onto him, sobbing hysterically.

"Cutler… he… I didn't mean… I didn't want… oh God!" She couldn't get the words out; she was choking on them as they all tried to tumble from her lips.

"Did he hurt you?" Mercer asked – not that he would have been surprised, and not that he would have done anything about it even if Beckett had.

"N-no," she sniffled. "I just… I didn't think… I didn't mean to!"

"Didn't mean to – _what?_" Mercer questioned, more than a bit irritated. He wasn't used to questioning highly upset young women, and he had no patience for that sort of thing anyway.

Victoria seemed to realize this. She pulled back and fled across the terrace and into the house, slamming the door. He noted with interest that she slowed to a walk and seemed to calm herself down before going any further – a front. All aristocrats learned how to put up facades, to hide what they really felt. It never failed to amaze him how quickly those facades fell into place. When she disappeared from his sight, he would never have known that she had been weeping only moments before.

He turned and made for the cottage. Beckett could explain what had happened, if he wanted to; if not, it wasn't Mercer's business, and he'd let the issue drop.

He reached the house and entered it, looking about the small front room for Beckett. He was surprised to note that Beckett was sitting on the divan, head in his hands. At the sound of the door his head jerked upwards, looking back; he slumped again when he saw who it was. "Mercer," he said, his voice monotone.

"Your fiancé just ran into me," Mercer informed him, raising an eyebrow. "She was on the verge of hysteria, I think."

"Did she say what had happened?" Beckett asked quietly, staring rigidly at the ground.

"Not really. She kept saying that she 'didn't mean to,' though."

Beckett closed his eyes, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "No, I imagine she didn't," he said.

Mercer stood silent, waiting to see if his master would continue. He did, surprisingly.

"I told her that Miss Whitlock wanted to visit her," Beckett explained, "And that I wasn't going to permit it. And so to… ah… help me change my mind… she kissed me."

"Ah. I see," Mercer said.

"I don't think you do," Beckett said angrily. "That bloody pirate taught her well. She kisses like a bloody whore!"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Unfortunately, no," Beckett groaned. "It's a very, _very_ good thing. And I… didn't react very gracefully when she stopped."

"I _see_," Mercer said, and this time he truly did.

"I don't think she realizes what an effect that sort of thing has on men," Beckett said, heaving a sigh. "And she wasn't entirely prepared for what it did to me."

"Neither were you, apparently," Mercer noted dryly.

Beckett smiled mirthlessly. "No, I don't believe I was," he said. "She doesn't seem the sort who understands such things very well."

"She _doesn't_ understand them," Mercer pointed out. "But that doesn't make her incapable of them, apparently."

Beckett stood reluctantly, straightening his frock coat with careful precision. "I suppose I ought to return to the house," he said, "Much as I'm sure Victoria will want me to stay away. I have some work to do; I think I'll stay in the office the rest of the day. Send a message to Miss Whitlock and advise her to come tomorrow. Deliver it personally, please. And keep Victoria out of my office; I don't think we want to see each other anymore today. I'll take dinner there."

Mercer nodded to each of these commands – more hesitantly to the order to bring Miss Whitlock the message. "Anything else, sir?" he asked.

Beckett glanced at the items on the table across the room. "Move those," he ordered, pointing at them. "I think Victoria might know something about them; they're not safe here anymore. You know where they need to be taken."

"Yes, sir," Mercer said. Beckett's will would be carried out exactly as ordered – as usual.

* * *

Victoria retreated to her bedroom for the rest of the day, removing her diary from its place and frantically writing in it – until she recalled that Beckett had somehow discovered the precious book's location. Determined that he would not find it again, she found a different, more secret place in which to hide it, then continued her rant on Beckett and men in general.

When Rosemary tried to visit her, Victoria sent her away without ever saying a word – an imperious glare was all the warning Rosemary was given. It was enough, however, and Rosemary left her friend alone.

Beckett, too, took great pains to avoid Victoria. At one point they were forced to pass one another in the hall, but he purposely stood aside for her and let her pass, arms folded behind his back, as though to say, _I have no intention of touching or hurting you_. She was astonished when he did not appear at dinner, and even more astonished when he did not send for her for their usual evening walk once dinner was finished. Instead, Mercer appeared with a summons for Rosemary.

"It's from your father," he said, handing it to her. "I received it on my way from Miss Whitlock's home."

Victoria looked surprised. "You went to visit Cat?" she inquired.

"I had a message to deliver her," he said shortly, flushing a little. "She's coming to see you tomorrow."

"Really?" Victoria smiled so widely that even Mercer grinned in response.

"Really," he said. "Beckett thought you… ah… deserved it."

Victoria blushed and dropped her head. "Is he…?"

"He's fine," Mercer assured her. "You won't be seeing him for a while, but he's mostly recovered. You needn't fret."

Rosemary raised an eyebrow. "What'd you do to the bastard, Tori?" she asked curiously.

"Nothing," Victoria muttered, refusing to look at her friend. "You said you had a message for Rose?"

"Ah, yes." Mercer removed an envelope from within his coat and handed it to Rosemary. "I believe it's a summons," he informed her as she opened it.

Rosemary's eyes flickered across the page, her brow furrowed slightly as she read. A slow, wicked little smile began to spread across her face as she read. When she reached the end, however, she frowned deeply. She threw the letter onto the table and said, "I'm not returning home merely because that prig Presbery wishes to court me!"

Victoria choked on her wine. "Lord Presbery intends to court _you_?" she gasped. "But he's such a gentleman! Has he gone mad?"

"I think so," Mercer snorted, "But then, it seems many men do when it comes to Miss Wellington."

Rosemary _harrumphed_ irritably. "Focus on the issue at hand, please!" she commanded. "My father has asked that I return home at once, as Presbery is coming tomorrow! And I simply won't go."

"Why on earth not?" Mercer asked. "You're clearly well enough to return home. Besides, it wouldn't be very acceptable for Presbery to court you while you were residing at someone else's house." He glanced sidelong at Victoria to ensure that this statement was correct. It was, and so Victoria didn't correct him, much as she wanted to refute his claim.

"Tori, you don't want me to leave, do you?" Rose said a bit pleadingly.

"Of course I don't," Victoria assured her.

"I hardly think your wishes are relevant; it's her father's command that matters."

The three occupants of the room turned at the sound of Beckett's voice. He was standing in the door, arms folded across his chest. "And as it's your father's command," he continued, "I simply must insist that you leave. I'll lend you a carriage for the return ride and a guard for you, if you wish. Mercer can accompany you; that ought to forestall any difficulties you might come across."

Rosemary and Mercer glared with equal hatred at each other. "I don't believe that will be necessary," she said.

"Please, I insist," Beckett said with a smirk. The smirk faded when he glanced in Victoria's direction. "Miss Thorne," he said a bit stiffly.

"Lord Beckett," she replied with equal formality.

His eyes held hers for a long moment – the feeling she had ignited earlier smoldering beneath his cool exterior. Then he turned abruptly from the door and walked in the direction of his office. Victoria still sat tensely, as though prepared to flee at the slightest provocation.

Rosemary had noticed the blatantly awkward interaction between them and was now studying her friend with concern. "Tori," she said softly.

"You should go," Victoria said carefully. "Beckett won't be happy if you stay."

"And since when do _you_ care what brings Beckett happiness?" Rose cried indignantly.

"Rosemary!" Victoria said sharply. "If you don't go now, you'll only make things worse than they are!"

Rosemary drew back, hurt and stunned. "Tori, what the devil is going on?" she demanded.

Victoria buried her face in her hands. "Just go," she ordered.

Mercer took a menacing step towards Rosemary, and she leapt to her feet, glaring at him. "Fine," she said frigidly. "I'll go. If you want to submit to Beckett's rule, that's _your_ decision."

"No," Victoria replied in defeat. "I have no say. He'll have me whether I give myself or not."

"If you believe that, then of course he'll have you," Rose said angrily. "I thought you had more spirit than that."

Victoria finally looked up, and when she did, her eyes were dead and hopeless. "So did I," she said sadly.

Rosemary wasn't sure how to react. She was horrified, saddened, and frightened all at once. That Beckett had the power to crush someone like Victoria until she was beaten and submissive…

She turned and rushed from the room to pack her things. There was nothing further she could do here.

Mercer didn't move from where he stood. He watched Victoria as she slumped to the table and buried her face in her arms again. "He hasn't broken you _that_ thoroughly," he said finally, decisively.

Victoria looked up again, a nasty glare on her face. "I'm glad you think so," she said sardonically. "Will you leave me alone, so that I can recover my shattered strength?"

Mercer grinned. "That's the last thing we want, isn't it?" he said. "If I didn't have Rosemary to attend to…" He paused, frowning. "You'll need a guard for tonight, so that you don't run off."

"I don't intend to," Victoria said despondently. "Where would I run, anyway? I've nowhere else to go."

"Home, the _Blind Beggar_, and Orson are nowhere now?"

"My father would send me back, you'd find me at the _Beggar_, and I've no idea where Orson is now," Victoria retorted. "I would ask how you knew of my association with the _Beggar,_ but that would be pointless, wouldn't it? You know everything that I do about myself."

"More, actually," Mercer said with a genial smile. "By the way, if you want to hide your diary from me you might look for someplace other than the bedsprings. Good try, though."

Victoria took her wine glass and hurled it across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall by Mercer's head. "Get out!" she shouted.

He held up his hands with a laugh. "As you wish, Lady Beckett," he said mockingly. He was gone before she could hurl another object at him.

She dropped back into her chair with a heavy sigh. She didn't relish the thought of being trapped in Beckett's house with no one else to protect her – especially after his reaction to her today – but she didn't have much choice; now that she knew for certain it was real, she would simply have to give in to Beckett. She couldn't do that with Rosemary in the house – Rosemary would never permit Beckett to win if she were present. But, Victoria thought with a tiny smile of satisfaction, he wouldn't really be winning. If she could find out the location to which he intended to move the sword, she could have it and be gone to London's wharf before he would ever know. Then she would know he had been thwarted in one of his many efforts to maintain power. Even if he brought her back, even if he killed her or locked her away, she would have done something to bring him down.

She would at least have that.


	9. Cat Pays a Visit

When Victoria awoke the next morning, she was only slightly surprised to find Mercer standing by her bedside, arms folded calmly across his chest. He grinned at her as her eyes fluttered open. "Good morning, Lady Beckett," he said.

She groaned, grabbed her pillow, and hurled it at him. "Don't call me that wretched name!" she ordered.

He deftly caught the pillow with one hand and immediately threw it back at her. "Why is it that you always end up tossing the nearest object you have at me?" he asked in amusement.

"Because you see fit to mock my pain!" Victoria said, outraged. "And you never leave me alone!"

"Believe you me, milady, if I had a choice I'd be doing something else," he said dryly. "I've much more interesting tasks assigned to me normally. I'll be damn happy when Beckett has you wedded and bedded."

"Bastard." Victoria shuddered slightly at the thought of being 'bedded' and quickly changed the subject. "I take it Rosemary returned home last night?"

"Yes," Mercer said, the smile evaporating from his face and a grimace replacing it. "She's been safely deposited back into her father's care. I really hate that wench."

"I don't believe she's very fond of you, either," Victoria said with a sigh. She looked up sharply. "Where's Cutler?" she asked.

"Lord Beckett is out for the day," Mercer said calmly. "He won't be back until the evening, unless one of his numerous appointments happens to be cancelled. He had some… business to take care of."

"What _sort_ of business?" Victoria cried in alarm. She could well guess what he might be doing, and none of it boded well for her.

"Not _your_ business," Mercer said, cocking an eyebrow at her.

She glared at him. "Does it have something to do with me?" she questioned.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," he said, a wicked grin flashing across his scarred face. "Are you going to get dressed, or do you plan to lay in bed all day?"

"The latter, if you won't tell me what he's playing at," she threatened.

Mercer leaned casually against the wall. "I can stand here all day," he said easily. "In fact, you'll make my job that much simpler if you stay here."

Victoria glowered at him, threw back the covers, and rose. "God forbid I make your job simple," she said, calmly striding past him despite her state of undress. She had long ago lost her modesty before Mercer; she had found that he cared relatively little about her and had no sort of sexual interest in her – possibly because of his employer, or just because of his nature. At any rate, the sight of her in a chemise did nothing to change his stoic and menacing presence around her, and after nearly five months of being under constant guard she no longer cared if he saw her. "At least tell me if it has something do with me," she pleaded.

"It may," Mercer said shortly. "And then, it may not. _Mary!_"

At Mercer's shout, a maid pushed open the door and shuffled inside, head bowed. She dropped a curtsy to Victoria and then pulled her behind a screen to dress. Victoria did so in angry silence, glaring through the screen at the shadowy silhouette moving about her room. "If you're looking for my diary, you're not going to find it on my bookshelf," she called to him when she noted that he was intently studying the shelf on the right wall.

"Pity," he said, "It would be the perfect place to put it. Better, in fact, than on top of the canopy of a four poster bed."

"Damn," Victoria muttered, more irritated than astonished that he'd found her diary again despite the cleverness of her hiding spot. "How do you track things down, Mercer?"

"I have many methods, none of which I intend to share with you."

"Humph," Victoria huffed, then gasped sharply as the maid Mary tugged on her corset laces. "I truly despise corsets," she said with a grimace. "Why is it that women have to wear such painful clothing?"

"I've no idea, milady," Mercer answered her.

As the maid finished buttoning up her dress, Victoria suddenly recalled the first day Mercer had been her guard. "Mercer," she said as she stepped out from behind the screen, an evil smile on her face, "Do you remember helping me pick out bracelets for Cat's first visit?"

He turned on her with the most malicious glare she'd ever received. "Don't _even_ think about it," he hissed.

"Well, I can't very well meet my friend without the appropriate accessories," Victoria pouted. "And I've no one else to assist me."

"I am _not_ your personal maid," he snarled.

"You know, Mr. Mercer, at some point in your life you will probably find yourself assisting some woman in getting dressed," Victoria told him, a glint in her eye hinting that there was something more to her words than her innocent tone implied.

Mercer snorted at the insinuation. "I'll have you know, Miss Thorne, that when bedding a woman, the only part a man helps with is the _undressing_ – in case you hadn't noticed from prior experience. I highly doubt Orson was gentleman enough to dress you once he'd finished with you."

"He was asleep," Victoria said defensively.

"Exactly," Mercer smirked. "We sleep, you put your own damn clothes on and get out."

"You're a pig," Victoria said disgustedly. She turned to Mary. "Don't you think he's a pig?"

Mary flushed and mumbled something, then fled the room.

Victoria shook her head and turned back to Mercer. "Why is everyone so bloody afraid of you?" she asked. "_I'm_ not."

"I've never given you reason to be afraid," Mercer pointed out.

"And I suppose you've given _that_ poor girl reason to be afraid?" Victoria said, pointing at the door.

"Looking at me isn't enough of a reason?"

"Not for me." Victoria sat before her mirror and began arranging her jewelry. "Well, since Mary's run off, I'll be leaving my hair down," she sighed. She brushed it out until it was smooth and shining, then let it be as she slipped the pearl necklace around her neck and several bracelets around her wrist. She paused to study her left hand, as though considering what a ring would like on her finger.

"There'll be a ring there soon enough," Mercer told her, noting her stare.

She flushed and put her hand down. "There was supposed to be a ring there from a _different_ man," she said darkly, "Until you saw fit to imprison him."

Mercer rolled his eyes. "You would have been sorely disappointed if you'd held out that hope," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?" she demanded.

Mercer shrugged. "It would have been impossible for him to keep his promise," he said. "You can be assured of that."

Victoria was ready to argue, but at that moment Oscar the butler opened the door. "Miss Whitlock's arrived," he announced with a bow. "I've shown her into the drawing room. Shall I send for some tea to be brought?"

Victoria leapt to her feet in delight. "Show her into the dining room," she ordered. "I've not had breakfast yet. We'll be down shortly."

Oscar bowed again and then walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Victoria turned calmly to Mercer. "Would you mind entertaining Cat for a few minutes?" she requested politely. "I've a few more things to do before I'm prepared to greet a guest."

Mercer shook his head rapidly. "No," he said forcefully. "No, absolutely not!"

"Don't be rude," Victoria said, biting back a smile as she returned to studying herself in the mirror. "Just tell her I'll be down in a minute. You can at least make small talk until I arrive, can't you?"

"I don't make small talk in my line of work," Mercer said, looking stricken.

"Well, what _do_ you do when you encounter an associate you were sent to meet?" Victoria asked crossly.

"On a typical day, I kill them."

She grimaced. "_That_ won't do," she said. "You might not want to mention that to Cat."

"I don't intend to," Mercer said fervently. "In fact, I don't intend to speak to her at all."

"I'm not giving you a choice," Victoria said firmly.

"You can't order me about!" he said furiously.

She stood, eyes narrowed into icy green slits, and said directly into his face, "Mr. Mercer, as Lady Beckett I have full authority over this house in my husband's absence and I am commanding you to visit with Miss Whitlock until I myself can be present!"

"You're not married to him yet," Mercer growled, but despite this protest he turned to leave. He paused just inside the door. "By the way, I'm going to tell Beckett that you not only referred to yourself as 'Lady Beckett,' but also called him your husband."

She had her hairbrush in her hand and ready to toss at him, but he had run from the room before she could throw it. "Bastard," she said angrily, and set about finishing her preparations.

* * *

When Victoria arrived in the dining room, Mercer and Catherine were actually having a conversation – a fact so astonishing that Victoria literally stopped in the door and blinked several times to make certain she wasn't seeing things. True, the conversation was mostly held up on Catherine's end, but Mercer _was_ contributing… slightly…

Victoria coughed politely, biting back a wide smile as her friend looked at her. "Tori!" Cat cried in delight, jumping from her chair and embracing her. "How are you?"

"I've been worse," she admitted, "But I've been better, too." She raised an eyebrow at Mercer, who merely glared back at her. "I see you've been enjoying each other's company."

Catherine didn't notice the amusement in Victoria's tone, but Mercer did. "Miss Whitlock was telling me some very interesting stories about your childhood," he said with an impish little grin.

Victoria's eyes widened and her face colored. "Such as?" she said in a strangled voice.

"Oh, nothing serious," he said, a malicious gleam in his eye. "She told me that you found your way into the wine cellar once when you were twelve and got royally drunk, then tried to kiss the stable boy. And that when you were fourteen and attending your first gala you caught your skirt on a nail and it ripped all the way up the back. And that – "

"Catherine Whitlock!" Victoria cried, turning on her friend. "How _could_ you?"

Cat giggled. "He asked how I knew you," she said with a shrug, "And one thing led to another. You aren't cross with me, are you?"

"Not with you," she said, staring daggers at Mercer.

"Lord Beckett will find it interesting that you planned to marry him when you were eleven," he interjected.

"You told _him_ that?" Victoria shrieked. "Dear God, Cat, is nothing to remain secret between us?"

"What?" Catherine asked in an injured tone. "I thought it was ironic, seeing as you're to marry Beckett soon."

"That's what Cutler thinks," Victoria said through gritted teeth.

"Well, at any rate, whatever feeling you had towards him died the instant you heard he'd had a man hung for piracy," Cat said, waving a hand carelessly. "You always did love pirates overmuch. Be glad I didn't tell him about that little trinket of Beckett's that you snitched once."

"What trinket?" Mercer asked. If he had been a dog, his ears would have perked up at those words.

"Well, Beckett was visiting the Thorne house one day –" Cat began.

"Catherine Josephine!" Victoria said sharply, as though she were her mother, "Don't you dare!" She drew in a deep breath to calm herself, and then ordered Mercer, "Those stories don't leave this room."

"Of course," Mercer said mockingly. It was obvious to Victoria that he had no intention of keeping such a promise; he was merely agreeing to please Catherine. No doubt he would snitch to Beckett the instant he had the chance.

"Well, since you pair have become so chummy, why don't you explain what I've been up to these past months here, Mercer?" Victoria advised, her eyes challenging.

"Sit down and I will," he retorted; then, with a glance in Catherine's direction, politely pulled out Victoria's chair for her, and motioned that she ought to sit. 

She sat with a huff and immediately began serving herself breakfast. She noted with a small smile that Mercer rushed to pull Cat's chair out for her, too, with far more sincerity and a chivalrous little bow.

As she ate, Mercer told Cat of a few of the adventures Victoria had had while staying at Beckett's manor. All of the stories were carefully edited to hide Beckett's manipulation and the general discord that had ruled the household since Victoria's arrival. He also kept them brief and to the point; Mercer was not a man who liked to talk when it wasn't absolutely necessary, unless it gave him the chance to slight someone. Cat listened raptly, smiling and laughing at exactly the right moment, which encouraged him. Despite his terse nature he kept Cat entertained until Victoria had finished her breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent wandering about Beckett's expansive property. Victoria showed Catherine around the house and gave her a tour of the gardens until it started pouring rain, at which point they fled to the cozy little cottage that Beckett had gifted to her the day before. Mercer built them a fire and they huddled around it until they were dry and the rain had briefly stopped. While he had been preparing the fire, Victoria had searched anxiously for Excalibur, but neither it nor its companion articles remained on the table. She thought she saw Mercer staring at her as she looked in vain for the ancient sword, but she convinced herself that it was merely her imagination.

Finally, they managed to find their way into the house just before it began to rain again. They stationed themselves around a fire in the drawing room, talking and laughing, until dinner was served. They had a lively dinner, as Mercer entertained them both with stories of the various criminals he ran across in his line of work. He had become increasingly talkative as the day had progressed, and by the end of the evening Victoria had determined that he was quite a good storyteller and that she would have to find some way to pry more tales of his life in the slums from him.

After dinner, the trio retired to Victoria's private library for tea, tired but generally happy with the day. It was then, when the sky was beginning to grow dark and the servants were rushing about lighting the lamps, that Cat began to relate what had been occurring in London, outside the safe boundaries of Beckett's manor.

"I wish you could hear the rumors flying about you," Cat said once they were comfortable. "You'd laugh at them all."

Victoria wrinkled her nose. "I highly doubt it," she said. "It probably has something to do with Cutler and I."

"But of course," Cat said, laughing musically. "Everyone wants to know what's been happening between you two. After all, no man's ever lasted nearly this long courting you. They say it must be love."

"Or pigheadedness," Victoria said derisively. "Believe me, Cat, Cutler and I hold no love for each other."

"You hold none for him, at least," Cat sighed. "I'm not so sure on his part."

"Then allow me to be sure for you," Victoria said flatly. "It isn't love that drives him, just the desire to possess me. I'm like another valuable item he pursues in the hopes of adding to his already massive collection. Am I right, Mercer?"

"For the most part, yes," Mercer said with a small smile. "He does harbor some affection for you, though – if only a little."

"You see what I've put up with for the last few months?" Victoria cried. "I think I shall go mad if I can't return home soon!"

Cat smiled sadly. "We do miss you very much," she said, "But we're happy that you're safe. We don't want you to be harmed."

"I could come to far more harm here than I ever would outside this place," Victoria said in disgust.

At this Cat grew very grave. "Most people believe he's already had you, you know," she said severely.

"Well, he hasn't," Victoria said firmly, "So you needn't worry about that."

Cat looked immensely relieved. "I'm glad," she said. "I was very concerned for you for a time."

"Cat, please," Victoria said, "We both know that it hardly matters at this point anyway."

Cat glanced at Mercer in surprise. "Does Beckett know, then?" she asked.

"The bastard's known from the beginning," Victoria said. "It's Orson who was imprisoned for attempting to kidnap me, you know."

Cat gasped. "I had no idea!" she said. "I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be," Mercer growled from the corner. "That disease-ridden whore's son deserves a far worse fate than the one he faces now, and he bloody well does not deserve Victoria."

"He always says things like that," Victoria said, rolling her eyes. "He's far too loyal to Beckett. Sometimes I suspect that if Beckett ordered him to slice off his own head, he would do it."

"I would," Mercer said shamelessly. "Is there something wrong with loyalty, Miss Thorne? I believed it to be a virtue."

"And we all know you are not possessed with many of those," Victoria laughed.

Cat lightly slapped Victoria's arm. "And neither are you," she said, glaring at her friend. She turned to Mercer. "Does she always treat you like this?"

"Oh, no," Mercer assured Cat. "Normally she's far worse."

"You have my sympathy," Cat told him sincerely. "You must be near a god to put up with her every day as you do."

Mercer seemed to blush at the compliment, but it was difficult to tell from the shadows in which he stood. "I… uh… thank you," he said lamely.

Victoria chuckled and poured herself a second cup of tea. "I imagine the aristocracy has been saying far worse things about me than what you've related," she said, saving Mercer from further humiliation.

"Not really," Cat said with a small shrug. "Everyone knows you're engaged, after all."

Victoria shook her head. "But we're not," she said in confusion.

"Oh, don't be so literal," Cat said with a huff. "You may not be yet, but for all the time Beckett's spent the last few weeks negotiating with your father you might as well be. Rumor has it they're sealing the agreement today. Are they?"

"They _what?!_" Victoria repeated, mouth dropping open.

Cat looked astonished. "I… didn't you know?" she asked.

"No, I obviously didn't!" Victoria snapped. She turned to stare at Mercer. "Is it true?"

Mercer shrugged. "How should I know?" he asked irritably. "Beckett doesn't include me in all of his plans. He _has_ been going out a great deal since Rosemary's gotten here, but he never told me where he was off to – merely that I should make sure you stayed here."

"Liar," Victoria said icily. She turned back to Cat, who was looking rather embarrassed.

"I… ah… didn't realize that you didn't know," she said softly.

"That's apparent," Victoria said sharply, then regretted it. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm just in shock. I didn't realize my father was selling me off like he would a ship's cargo."

"He's been driving a rather hard bargain, if it comforts you," Catherine said. "Of course, Beckett's been fighting equally hard for you. Your father and brothers kept changing the terms of the agreement. It was beyond ridiculous, actually. Beckett must be stubborn as hell."

"You've no idea," Victoria said wryly.

"He has to be, to court this one for as bloody long as he has," Mercer added. "Not to ruin the surprise, but I believe he intended to formally ask you for your hand tonight."

"I may tell him that you revealed that fact to me," Victoria threatened.

Mercer shrugged. "I don't see the point in hiding it from you," he said simply. "You'd probably have guessed, anyway, what with this new information coming to light."

Victoria _harrumphed_. "I hope Beckett is prepared to get an earful when he returns," she said heatedly.

"And why on earth would I deserve such a thing?"

The trio in the room turned suddenly to face Beckett, who had just opened the door. "I trust I'm not interrupting anything?" he said, raising an eyebrow as he entered the room. He stopped behind Victoria's chair, laying his hands at its top.

"Oh, no," Victoria said sweetly. "You did, however, miss an absolutely fascinating conversation on what's been happening in the outside world. Cutler, you quite neglected to tell me that you were entering into negotiations with my father for my hand!"

Beckett didn't even flinch. "Did I, now?" he said. "How forgetful of me."

If Victoria hadn't been slightly more mindful of her company, she might have leapt to her feet and slapped him. "How much did my father sell me for?" she asked a bit harshly, lifting her teacup to her lips and tossing the tea back as though it were a glass of brandy.

"Nothing," Beckett said simply.

Victoria choked on the tea she had swallowed only moments before. "Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," Beckett said, calmly adjusting his frock coat. "I have his permission to wed you, and I receive, out of the deal, you."

"And…?"

"That's all."

Victoria stared at him in disbelief. "I had a very extensive dowry – "

"I am aware of it," Beckett said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. "Unfortunately, your father saw fit to spread that inheritance to your brothers. Keep it in the family, you know."

"And you _accepted_ this?" Victoria cried. "That's the most horrendous agreement I've heard of!"

"Then you sorely underestimate your own worth, Miss Thorne," he said.

"Or you sorely overestimate it," she said, unable to keep a touch of admiration from her voice. "Why would you accept such a pitiful offer?"

"It's not the money I want out of the arrangement, it's the woman." He bent over her chair and snatched her teacup, taking a sip. "Forgive me," he said with a little smirk, "It's cold and wet outside."

"All I'm ever going to do is give you hell," Victoria said, too amazed to protest. "You know that, don't you?"

"You've certainly made that plain enough," Beckett said dryly.

"I'm not going to change just because you married me."

"I know that too."

She looked at Mercer in disbelief. "He's gone mad, Mercer," she said.

Mercer nodded his agreement with such sincerity that Victoria took a cushion from the chair and threw it at him. "Will you stop it?" he said in irritation.

"It could be worse," Victoria pointed out. "I could have thrown the teacup."

At this Beckett uttered a very uncouth curse. "Don't you _dare_ break those teacups!" he exclaimed. "They were a gift from King George himself! The tops of the bloody things are lined with gold!"

"Are they really?" Catherine said, picking hers up and studying its edge. She ran her finger across the slender gold line at the rim. "Tori, they _are!_" she cried in childlike delight.

"Yes, that's all very well and good," Victoria said angrily. She turned on Beckett once more. "Why the bloody hell didn't you propose to me?"

"I was going to yesterday, actually," Beckett told her, "But there were… ah… complications."

Victoria turned a very bright shade of crimson. "Ah," she said. "That."

"Yes. That." He set the teacup down on the table again as an awkward silence descended amongst them. Finally, he said, "Your youngest brother wished me to inform you that if you accept he will never speak to you again."

"And was his the only message?" Victoria asked.

"Your mother will never speak to you again if you don't accept, and neither will Byron or Charles. Your father did not make it clear whose side he was on in this matter."

"Typical," Victoria said nastily. "I don't suppose you saw Rosemary today?"

"I did not, thank God," Beckett said, "Nor do I intend to see her until Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" Victoria repeated. "Why Wednesday?"

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Because you turn eighteen on Wednesday, and there's to be a masquerade ball in your honor," he said. "Or didn't you hear?"

"A masquerade?" she gasped. "Where?"

"Here, where else?" Beckett said.

"_You're_ arranging it?" she said in amazement.

"Consider it a birthday and engagement present," he said loftily.

"We're still not engaged," Victoria informed him. "You haven't proposed to me and I certainly haven't accepted."

"Miss Thorne, will you marry me?" Beckett asked, his voice never changing tone.

Cat, it was plain, was totally surprised by the deft way in which the proposal was delivered, but Victoria was prepared for it. "Name one reason why I should," she said skeptically.

"Because you will be taken care of for life," Beckett told her. "Because I am wealthy and desirable and can give you everything you will ever need or want."

"No, you can't," Victoria said frigidly. "You can't give me my freedom."

"Neither can Orson," Beckett retorted. "No matter what you believe, he could never have given you that."

"You know nothing of Orson," Victoria said through gritted teeth.

"More than you, apparently," Beckett fired back, his temper rising.

"Why does everyone presume to think they know more than I do about him?" Victoria cried in frustration. "None of you have ever spent any time with the man! You can't begin to understand –!"

"He's married, Victoria," Mercer interjected. "Has been for five years. His wife lives in London's slums and he has three children."

"What?" Victoria said, head whipping to face Mercer. "No, he isn't!"

"Yes, he is," Mercer said flatly.

"No, he isn't!" Victoria repeated stubbornly. "Either you're lying or you have the wrong information."

"Do you really think I'd ever have the wrong information, Miss Thorne?" Mercer questioned incredulously. "I am quite capable of lying to you, but in this matter I'm speaking the truth."

"I don't believe you," Victoria said furiously, heat rising to her cheeks.

"That's your choice," Mercer said with a shrug. "But it won't be my fault when you discover that I've told you the truth."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Victoria said certainly. "Cat, tell him he's wrong."

Cat looked at Mercer, considering him carefully – so much so that he began to look uncomfortable. "I don't think he is," she said after a moment.

"Oh, you _would_ say that," Victoria said crossly, rising from her chair and starting to pace about the room. "You always believe the best about everyone."

"You can see in people's eyes when they're lying," Cat said certainly. "I've always known. And he's not lying."

"Prove it to me," Victoria said, her voice rising along with her temper. "Prove it to me, and maybe I'll believe you. Until then, I'm going to bed. This evening has quite overwhelmed me and I may go berserk if I spend any more time with you three!"  
With that, she turned and stormed out of the room, literally running down the hall to the room that now belonged to her.

Catherine blushed and hung her head. "Was I wrong to tell her that?" she asked.

"No," Mercer rushed to assure her. "It's not something she's ready to hear. That's all."

"It's terrible," Catherine said sadly. "She does love him, you know."

"Oh, yes," Beckett said enviously. "Believe you me, Miss Whitlock… I _know._"

She cast him a sympathetic glance, then rose from her seat. "I should go," she said with a sigh.

"I'll send for my carriage," Beckett told her. "Mercer will bring you home. I'm sorry the night ended so… unpleasantly. I trust the rest of the day was better."

"Much better," Catherine told him. "I'm glad I could see her. She wasn't meant to be shut away."

"No, I don't suppose she was," Beckett agreed. "Good night, Miss Whitlock. I'll send Mercer with you to ensure your safety, if you don't mind."

"No, I'd like that," she said eagerly. "Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord."

"Any time," Beckett said with a small grin. He looked curiously at Mercer as he passed, raising an eyebrow as though to question Catherine's anxiousness to spend time with him. Mercer grinned lopsidedly and then continued walking past. He stopped, however, when Catherine paused in the door.

"Did you ever lose a gold ring with your initials on it, my Lord?" she questioned.

Beckett blinked in surprise. "Well, yes," he said with a frown. "Quite a while ago, actually."

"Six years ago," Catherine said with a nod.

"Yes, about," Beckett agreed, looking even more perplexed. "How in the world did you know?"

She smiled mysteriously. "You might want to ask Tori where it went," she said casually.

Comprehension dawned on Mercer's face. "Ah, I see," he said.

"I don't," Beckett scowled. "What's Tori have to do with it?"

"Good night, my Lord," Catherine said, waving her hand in parting. Before Mercer could explain, she caught his hand and tugged him after her down the stairs.

Beckett shook his head as he watched the duo depart; then, he turned and followed Tori's path down the hall. He and his future bride had some matters to discuss…


	10. Counting the Days

Victoria was sitting at her mirror, brushing out her long blonde hair and moodily staring at her own reflection, when her door opened with a small creak, light from the hall pooling onto the floor. Beckett stood framed in the doorway, watching her with calculating eyes. She made no move to respond to his presence. She didn't care what he had to say to her, nor did she wish to speak to him. She wasn't entirely certain her beleaguered and confused mind could take much more of his battering tonight.

If her reticence annoyed him, he did quite a job of hiding it. He calmly stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, glaring at the maid until she made a hurried exit into a different room. "I don't suppose you have an answer for me," he said finally when she did not acknowledge him.

"I have an answer," Victoria said harshly, "But I may find myself regretting it if I were to submit it as my true response."

Beckett chuckled darkly. "Doubtless, a correct assessment," he agreed. "If I've taught you nothing else, I know at least that you've learned to choose your words carefully."

Victoria had nothing to say to that. She set down her brush with a forceful thump and pulled her hair back, beginning to loop it into a messy braid. Beckett watched her with careful consideration, waiting to see if she would say something. Finally, he came to stand beside her. "Mercer gave me this a few weeks ago," he said casually, setting down a stack of parchment. "I believe you may find it quite… informative."

"What is it?" Victoria asked, eyeing it as though it were a loathsome insect.

"Records of the HMS _Daring_'s voyage back to England, from about five years ago," he told her. "Lists the weather, the cargo, the passengers, that sort of thing."

"And I care because?"

"I thought you might be interested in the section marked 'marriages,'" he remarked. "I believe you will find the exact page has a bent corner. There were three couples married on board that ship, one of them a pregnant young woman about two years your senior."

Victoria felt a terrible sense of dread creeping through her. "Why does this interest me?" she whispered.

"Look and you'll see."

She wasn't watching him, but she heard the smirk in his voice. She turned to glare at him, green eyes narrowed down to tiny slits, out of which tears had begun to spill. "You mock me," she hissed.

"Perhaps." He motioned to the pages on the table. "Are you going to read? Or shall I read it for you?"

Victoria reluctantly reached out and pulled the parchment towards her. She shifted the pages, listening as they rustled like dry leaves scuttling across the pavement. The sound distracted her from what she was doing, allowing her mind to focus on something, anything, besides what she was about to read. All too soon, her fingers found the page with the bent corner. Her eyes slowly scanned downwards, studying the steady, simple hand that had written the word "Marriages" in the middle of the page.

She read the names. The first she came across shattered her simple state of denial with heart-rending force.

_Orson Shaw and Jane Thrush Shaw, married this day…_

She pressed a fist to her lips to keep the sobs within her from boiling forth. All this time – a year and a half, now – and he had been married. He'd _lied_ to her! He'd promised her a whole world, and he'd never meant to keep that promise…

Her nerveless fingers let the page flutter lightly down onto the desk. Beckett calmly reached over and placed the paper back where it belonged in the stack, straightening the stack and removing it from her sight. She didn't see where he set it; she buried her face in her hands and started to weep.

Beckett was completely unsympathetic. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said derisively. "Did I shatter all your childish fantasies about the scum you chose to associate with? I _beg_ your pardon, Miss Thorne. Perhaps if you'd listened to me from the start this phase would have been long over and you and I both could have gotten on with our lives. That damn pirate would have been hung and you would bloody well have been my wife by now."

"Stop!" Victoria cried, leaping from her seat. "Is it not enough for you to take everything I have from me?"

"No," he replied simply. "Because once I've taken everything you have, I intend to take you, too."

"I _hate_ you!" Victoria snarled, stepping back from him with her hands clenched into fists. "And I will hate you until the day I die!"

"Oh, yes, hate me - do," Beckett laughed mirthlessly. "See how much good it does you in the end." He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Hate me for the moment," he said in a deathly soft voice, "But someday you'll love me. One day, you will no longer have a choice but to love me…"

He released her and stepped back, one hand sliding down her arm and taking her wrist. He lifted her limp hand and slid a striking golden ring around her finger. "Good night, Lady Beckett," he sneered, dropping her limp arm and turning away.

Victoria lifted her hand, staring at the ring he'd given her. Wreaths of gold looped elegantly about several shimmering diamonds and sapphires. It was truly stunning. Any other woman might have fainted at the sight of such a rich offering – but Victoria was distressed and furious to boot. "You don't yet have my consent," she called to Beckett's retreating back.

He turned on her with a vicious glare. "You cannot seriously be rejecting me," he said incredulously.

She drew in a deep breath. "I'm not," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "But neither am I accepting." She went to sit on her bed, smoothing her dress with nervous hands. "This is all a bit… overwhelming for me, you understand," she said slowly. "I need a little time to consider my options."

"Ah, yes," Beckett retorted, "The options that _you don't have_."

"As long as I'm alive, I have a choice," she said certainly. "I could kill myself, you know."

"It would be a terrible waste," Beckett told her, "But if you'd rather be a feast for the worms than the dazzlingly beautiful wife of a respected and wealthy lord, be my guest. The window's open; you may as well hurl yourself from it right now."

"Your ridicule is unnecessary and unappreciated," Victoria said testily. "I could run."

"Where to?" Beckett snorted. "I have agents everywhere. Besides, Mercer is the best bloody tracker in the British Empire. I'd like to see you try to hide from him."

This was admittedly true, so she didn't argue with him. "I don't think I'm asking for much," she said. "I merely requested a few days to think over your proposal. Is that so uncommon?"

Beckett looked murderous. "And when," he inquired nastily, "Shall I have my Lady's answer?"

"Wednesday," she replied automatically.

"Wednesday is going to be quite the busy day, isn't it?" he sighed. "Very well, _Miss Thorne_ – for the moment." He eyed her suspiciously. "If you believe refusing will allow you to return home –!"

"You needn't worry about that," Victoria said in disgust. "I have no such hopes now. Should I choose to reject you – and believe you me, it's not yet out of the question – I am certain you will continue your pursuit more doggedly than before."

"You've no idea," Beckett said ominously. "And when, precisely, shall you answer me on Wednesday?"

"I'll make the time to tell you," she promised.

"You'd better," Beckett growled. He turned on his heel and started towards the door without so much as a goodnight. Suddenly, he paused, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. "Tell me something, Victoria," he said. "What do you know of a gold ring of mine with my initials emblazoned on its front?"

Victoria turned to him so speedily that if she had not been sitting she most certainly would have lost her balance. "I – what?" she gasped.

He raised both brows at this reaction. "I was told to inquire as to its whereabouts," he said. "Miss Whitlock seemed to believe that you might have some recollection of its location. I lost it almost six years ago. I'd forgotten about it, actually, until she mentioned it."

"I'm going to kill that girl," Victoria seethed.

"Why?" Beckett demanded, perplexed.

"Nothing," Victoria said through clenched teeth. "I have no idea what she's talking about."

"We absolutely must work on your lying skills," Beckett sighed. "You're absolutely pathetic at it."

"Just leave me alone!" she said sharply. "It's not important…"

"It's a solid gold ring," Beckett said indignantly, "And it's mine, which makes it _very_ important."

"I don't have it," she said frigidly. "Now get out, before I decide to start throwing things at you, too."

"You've done quite enough of that to Mercer," Beckett said. "I hardly believe I need a share of it."

"Oh, you do," Victoria said, reaching threateningly for a vase near her bed.

If she had been anyone else, Beckett would have scoffed at the notion that she might hurl such an object at him. But Victoria was not "anyone else." He moved quickly towards the door, calling over his shoulder, "Good night, _Lady Beckett_!"

He slammed the door just in time to hear the vase shatter into a thousand fragments against the wood frame. He shook his head in mild frustration and turned away. He desperately wanted to give the stubborn little wench a good thrashing, but there was still other work to be done, and it was waiting for him in large stacks inside his office…

* * *

Victoria awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of rocks banging against her window. She stirred from her bed and stumbled confusedly to the window's edge. She used all her strength to force the window open, then leaned out. "Who is it?" she hissed into the darkness.

"Oy there!" a voice replied in a loud whisper. "Are you Victoria Thorne?"

"Yes," Victoria sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

She blinked in confusion at the question. "Yes, I'm quite sure," she said with a frown. "Who are you?"

"I'll tell you in a minute; just come down," the disembodied voice ordered.

Victoria looked around nervously. "I don't think I can," she told the voice. "I imagine I'm guarded on all sides."

"Well that makes things bloody difficult, doesn't it?" the voice said irritably. "Fine, I'm coming up. Just hang on a minute. And step back from the window, love."

She obediently stepped back, in the meantime slowly reaching for a pistol she kept hidden by her bedside. She had no doubt that Mercer and Beckett would keep her safe from outside forces, but Mercer would hardly protect her from Beckett himself. She had thought a pistol might be the one thing capable of stopping Beckett from harming her. Of course, knowing Mercer, he'd already discovered the location of the bloody thing and had removed the ammunition.

Nonetheless, Victoria held the pistol in her hand and aimed it at the window. She most certainly did not trust whoever was attempting to climb into Beckett's house; he sounded as though he came from the lower class – possibly a pirate. A friend of Orson's, maybe. And any man who could be friend to Orson was _not_ her friend.

She aimed the gun at the window, eyes narrowed in concentration. As she stood poised and ready to shoot, she abruptly wondered – _Where exactly is Mercer? He should have been back by now…_ But she didn't have time to question further. A man's head appeared in the window frame, and she instantly pulled the trigger of the pistol – but the gun didn't go off. She flipped it open angrily – and saw nothing. Mercer _had_ unloaded the damn thing! "Bastard," she growled, and then prepared to use the pistol as a club.

By the time she had recovered and was bringing the pistol towards her adversary, he was in the room and prepared for the next blow. "Whoa!" he said, catching her wrist. "Easy there, love. I'm not here to hurt you."

She studied him suspiciously. He had long, dark hair kept out of his face by a bright red bandana. He wore the clothing of a pirate, and his small goatee was braided with many beads. He looked quite out of place in the midst of the rich surroundings he stood in. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Name's Captain Jack Sparrow," he said with a grin, offering her his hand to shake. "Heard of me before?"

"Oh, yes, all the time!" Victoria said, fear fading to excitement. "You owe almost everyone at the _Blind Beggar_ money!"

The grin on the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow's face evaporated at that. "So I do," he said, coughing a little in embarrassment. "But you _have_ heard of me in some other way, right?"

Victoria frowned, then shook her head. "I don't believe so, no," she said.

Jack looked immensely disappointed. "Ah, well," he sighed. "It's my lot in life to be neglected and abandoned. Got any rum?"

"There might be brandy in the cellar," Victoria said doubtfully, "But I wouldn't attempt going down there. There are guards everywhere."

"I'd heard that the loathsome lord thought you were valuable," Jack said with a nod, starting to look around the room. "I didn't think it'd be this bloody easy to get to you. Is that candlestick solid gold?"

Victoria glanced at the candlestick in question in surprise. "I… believe so," she said. She shot him a nasty look. "You're not touching it, though."

"'Course not," Jack agreed, but he was still eyeing it with a greedy glint in his eye. He turned back to her and caught sight of the diamond ring still on her finger. "Nice ring," he said, nodding to it. "That a gift from the man in miniature?"

It took her a moment to realize that Jack was mocking Beckett's considerable height deficiency. "Well, yes, actually," she said with a smile. "He's proposed to me."

"I love weddings!" Jack said cheerily. "There's always something good to drink and plenty of good food to eat, and some very nice gifts for the bride and groom."

"Why do I get the feeling that the bride and groom find themselves lacking several gifts when you're a guest?" she sighed. "Captain Sparrow, why are you here? I had understood that you and Beckett aren't very friendly with one another."

Jack made a face. "We're not," he assured her. "Otherwise, why would I have come through the window? No, love, I'm here about a certain mission that one of our noble comrades has set you upon – something to do with Excalibur?"

Victoria's smile disappeared instantly. "Orson is not a noble comrade," she said harshly. "He's lying, filthy swine and I want nothing to do with him!"

"Strong words from a woman who he claims has been his lover for over a year," Jack said in surprise.

"He's married," Victoria said flatly.

Jack flinched. "Ah, yes… that," he sighed. "Unfortunate but true. But you can't blame the man for falling in love with such a beautiful woman, can you?"

She blushed but refused to be baited into believing Orson's love was true. "I don't believe he loves me," she said.

"Well, I think he does," Jack said simply. "I know he trusts you, too, 'cause he set you up to steal the mystical sword thing away from our gallows-happy enemy Beckett. Do you know where it is?"

"I've seen it," Victoria said cautiously, "But he's moved it since then. I've no idea where it's gone to."

"Bugger," Jack said, beginning to pace. He walked past her mirror and dressing table and smoothly snitched a gold and ruby necklace from it. Had she not been so well trained to watch for pickpockets, Victoria would never have noticed. "See, we were hoping that you might have already recovered the sword," he said, turning back towards her. "It's a matter of some urgency, see… the lovely EIC is planning an attack, we think, and we'd like to have a little surprise waiting for them when they come. Do you think you could maybe find the sword soon?"

"Put the necklace back, then we'll talk," Victoria ordered.

Jack looked astonished, but he quickly returned the necklace to its place and then stood at attention, still nervously shifting from foot to foot.

Victoria couldn't help but smile as she watched Jack's shifty movements. "I can't promise you much," she said doubtfully. "I'd have to distract Cutler somehow, and that won't be easy."

"Surely a beautiful woman like you can find certain ways to distract him?" Jack said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "Savvy?"

She grimaced. "I understand," she said. "But I refuse to be brought down to the level of a whore."

"So marry the bugger," Jack suggested, casually leaning against her wardrobe. "He's given you a bloody ring with a diamond the size of a bloody apple; marry him, keep him distracted for the honeymoon month, and while distracting him, find the sword."

This was a good idea, of course – if Victoria still intended to help the pirates. But after the information she had been given about Orson, she was no longer eager to assist the pirates in any way she could. In fact, she wanted to understand the value of this sword she had offered to find for her pirate friends. "Why should I want to help you?" she demanded. "Orson has deceived me, and he was my primary reason for assisting in some way."

"It's not that simple though, is it, love?" Jack said quickly. "See, you don't like Beckett, do you?"

She shook her head.

"And you're trying to fight him in every way you can, aren't you?"

She nodded her agreement.

"Stealing Excalibur is the best possible way in which to fight him," Jack explained. "See, you take the sword from him, and he loses a huge source of influence over London. It's a victory for Beckett's enemies, which is automatically a victory for you. Savvy?"

"Yes," Victoria said slowly. "But how can I trust you?"

"I'll give you something valuable in return for your promise that the sword will go to us," Jack offered.

"Such as?"

Jack looked about his person for something valuable. He hesitated a very, very long time – then untied a compass from the sash at his waist. "This," he said reluctantly, holding it out to her.

She took it and flipped it open. It immediately spun towards the east and held there. "A compass that doesn't point north?" she said skeptically.

"No, it doesn't point north," Jack agreed. "It points to the thing you want most, love."

"Does it, now?" Victoria said, rolling her eyes. "How great of a fool do you think I am?"

"No, really, it does," Jack said, looking wounded. "Think about it. What's to the east? Orson? One of your friends? Your family and home?"

Home. She paused at that, studying the direction in which the arrow pointed. She realized that it was indeed pointing directly towards her family and her house. "That's just coincidence," she said quickly. "It doesn't actually –!"

"You don't think so?" Jack said. "Try handing it to Beckett sometime. See if the damn thing doesn't point at you."

"I doubt he desires me above all other things," she said skeptically.

"Right now I imagine he does," Jack said. "He hasn't been keeping up with his Company work because he's been so avidly pursuing you. His fellow lords are not very happy with him, I'll say that."

"Really?" Victoria said thoughtfully. She looked down at the compass in her hand. "I'll think about it," she said finally.

Jack sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that," he said. "Fine, so be it. I'll be back Wednesday night to have your answer – or my compass, whichever your answer dictates."

Victoria heaved a sigh. "Wednesday is quite the day," she murmured. "Very well."

Jack bowed almost drunkenly. "G'night, Lady Beckett," he said.

"It's Miss Thorne," Victoria said sharply.

Jack looked up with a grin. "For the moment," he agreed. He saw the murderous glint in her eyes and promptly leapt out the window, sliding down a long column to the ground and running off into the night.

At that moment, Mercer entered the room. He stopped in surprise when he saw that Victoria was awake. "Up so late, milady?" he asked, closing the door behind him.

"I… couldn't sleep," Victoria said quickly, hiding the compass behind her back. "Today has been so odd…"

"Yesterday, by this hour," Mercer said a bit distractedly. Victoria inwardly breathed a sigh of relief; something else was occupying Mercer's mind, and it kept him from noticing her peculiar behavior.

"Out doing Beckett's dirty work, were you?" she asked, sliding beneath the covers of her bed and hiding the compass beneath her pillow – not the most ideal of hiding places, but it was the best she could do for the moment.

"Hmmm? No," Mercer said, absently closing the window as though it weren't strange for it to be standing open. "No, I was returning Cat home."

"Ah, I see," Victoria said, a wide grin spreading across her face. "And how _was_ Cat?"

Mercer, despite his distracted state, noticed her tone and glanced at her. "Miss Whitlock," he said stiffly, "Was fine."

"You know, it doesn't take this long to go to her house and back," Victoria noted thoughtfully. "You must have paused along the way. Did she manage to hold your attention for this long a time?"

"Go to sleep, wench," Mercer growled, turning away angrily.

Victoria hid a smile and said, "But Mercer, I _can't_ sleep. My mind's far too restless. Won't you tell me what you talked about with her?"

"If you can't sleep, then you can converse with your husband," Mercer informed her none-to-kindly.

"That won't be necessary," Victoria said hurriedly, eyes widening at the thought of having to speak to Beckett yet again that night.

"I didn't think so," Mercer said in satisfaction. "_Go to sleep._"

Victoria huffed irritably, but laid down and curled cozily beneath her covers – and was soon lulled asleep by the warmth of her blankets and dreams of potential victory…

* * *

The next few days were spent in a flurry of activity. A tailor visited, throwing every variety of luxurious fabrics into each corner of Victoria's room for her inspection. Beckett informed the tailor that no expense for her masquerade costume was too great; thus, the tailor had brought all his most exotic and most costly fabrics to the mansion for her selection. She had quite the time selecting something from the incredible array of cloth offered her – each new bolt was so beautiful in its own unique way, and each offered delicious possibilities for costumes. But when her eye landed on a long bolt of fabric painted with a map of the world, an idea struck her as lightning might strike a tree. "That one," she said instantly, pointing to it.

Beckett, who had been watching in amusement, arched a brow at this unusual selection. "A map of the world, my dear?" he said. "I do believe we've spent far too much time together; your tastes are becoming far too similar to mine."

Momentarily repulsed, Victoria almost changed her mind; but no, the costume she would make with the dress would fit perfectly into her plans. "I had the most marvelous idea for a costume," she said to him. "Otherwise, you can be assured I would have selected something else."

There was a lengthy pause while Victoria longingly fingered several other fabrics. Beckett noted her sad look and smiled. "As long as the tailor's here, you might as well select fabric for several other dresses," he told her casually.

The tailor looked near ecstatic at this news. "You realize, sir, that the cost will be great?" he said hesitantly.

"Oh, I realize it," Beckett said calmly. "But such a woman deserves only the finest… don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes," the tailor said fawningly. Victoria didn't believe a word; a man of his occupation would say anything if it would cause his wealthy clients to spend a great deal of their money. If Beckett had been anyone else, Victoria would have declined such a generous gift, but wasting Beckett's money was, in a way, a sort of perverse revenge on him for all that he had done – and would do – to her.

By the end of the day, the tailor left with orders for twelve dresses made of his most expensive and most elegant fabrics, with the command that her masquerade dress must be completed in all haste. The man had promised he would not sleep, and after having made that promise, was followed home by several company guards to ensure that he would keep it. Victoria pitied the poor man; he would be quite exhausted by the time this project was completed.

Later that night, she sent Mercer to retrieve an East India Trading Company flag for her. When he asked why she would want such a thing, she merely smiled mysteriously and motioned that he go. He returned and laid the flag on her table with a shake of his head.

The next day Victoria was left alone for the most part while Beckett oversaw preparations for her birthday masquerade. She spent her precious free hours in her little hideaway, the rose-covered cabin, with Mercer quietly following her about the place. He did his best to remain unobtrusive, however, and she was mostly left to her own devices. She used to the time to write an elaborate poem with a complex rhyme scheme about a bird trapped in a cage by a cruel lord who jealously wished to possess her. The metaphor was not particularly subtle, but she didn't care; let Beckett see it, and let him think what he would of her.

Mercer, it was clear, had no love of poetry. When he snatched her diary from its place on the table and opened it to her entry, his eyes scanned the first few lines, and then he snorted and threw it back to her. "A poet in hiding, are we, milady?" he said disdainfully. "You ought to look at the library Beckett's got in this place. You might find something of interest to you there."

"How many libraries does he have?" Victoria said in amazement. She followed Mercer into a room lined with shelves of books. She spent most of the rest of the afternoon browsing, at last settling on a volume of poems by a man named Andrew Marvell.

It was dark out when Beckett came to retrieve her. By that point she had moved on to John Donne's love poems and was deeply engrossed, and so didn't notice his presence until he began to quote.

"Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime," he began.

She chuckled, the aptness of the poem he had chosen to quote quite humorous. "But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near…"

"Thy beauty shall no more be found, nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound my echoing song; then worms shall try that long-preserved virginity and your quaint honor turn to dust and into ashes all my lust: the grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace…" Beckett concluded.

" 'To His Coy Mistress,' my Lord?" Victoria asked with a mischievous grin. "An interesting choice."

Beckett smiled. "I felt it appropriate," he said, "As you, my dear, have played quite coy with me for nigh a year."

"And so you thought to seduce me by trying to convince me that we have no time for my continuous rejection?"

"We _don't_ have time for it," he said, approaching her and sitting on the couch beside her. "Life is short, and you and I both have a great deal of enemies. Any day we could find ourselves murdered in our beds."

"That would be a convincing argument if I weren't certain that you have set virtually every precaution to prevent such a murder from occurring," Victoria laughed. "If you think by saying this I'll give you an answer to your proposal a day earlier than I promised I would, or that I might suddenly decide to give in to your fiery desires, you'll be quite disappointed."

Beckett heaved a sigh. "You are ever unfair to me, my dear," he said.

"I must admit I'm surprised you know the poem so well," Victoria said.

"I know a great deal of literature," Beckett said, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you?" Victoria said, her voice challenging. "It hardly seems a pursuit an unromantic and business-minded individual like yourself would engage in."

"I'm a very surprising man, sometimes."

"So I've noticed," Victoria said, "But being able to quote one rather ridiculous love poem hardly impresses a woman like me who has read all sorts of literature – if, indeed, that was your hope."

"Perhaps," Beckett said evenly. "How, then, might I impress my ever-so-difficult to please beloved?"

"You don't love me," Victoria said flatly. "And I'm certain you can't impress me. But if you'd like to try, I would suggest quoting something more intellectual. I prefer intellectual reading material to light and useless romance poetry."

"Strange," Beckett said with a grin, "I'd pinned you for the sort with her head in the clouds – the sort who would love just that kind of poetry."

"Then you judged wrong, didn't you?" She turned away, lifting Donne's book determinedly back into her hands and beginning to read again – a clear indication that she wanted Beckett to leave.

He didn't. He studied her carefully, hesitating slightly, but then spoke slowly. "So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my good…"

Victoria grew sober. "Paradise Lost," she murmured, setting down the book.

Beckett nodded gravely. "My favorite epic," he revealed. He paused again. "Satan is quite a fascinating character," he added, looking at her as though hoping to hear her thoughts on the matter. "He's immensely charismatic, a good leader, but ever conflicted. He craves God's pardon but knows he will never be capable of serving anyone – not even God."

"Like you," Victoria said darkly. She stood and crossed the room towards the door. "I find myself quite tired, my Lord," she said formally. "I think I'll return to the house, if you're finished for the day."

"Have I offended you, Miss Thorne?" Beckett questioned, frowning slightly.

"No," she replied distantly. "It was merely… an interesting insight into the way you think, that's all. I trust I'll see you at supper."

"You will," Beckett said, studying her curiously. "Not that you'd miss me if I didn't put in an appearance."

"I might," she answered quietly.

He started in surprise. "What?" he said sharply, but she had already slipped out the door and gone.

He sat staring after her, totally perplexed. When Mercer appeared in the doorway with a questioning expression on his face, Beckett mumbled, "I don't understand that wench at all. One minute she hates me, the next she seems to admire me."

"I doubt you're the only one who's confused," Mercer said dryly. "_I _certainly don't understand her. I don't think she understands herself, sometimes. Should I follow her, sir?"

"No, let her go," Beckett said with a small sigh. "She'll just be going inside. She has nowhere else to go…" He stood stiffly, and walked past Mercer towards the door of the small cottage. "I'll be happy when Wednesday comes," he said crossly. "Then I'll have my answer and I'll know just what needs to be done with her…"

"It's only five days more," Mercer said in an attempt to be comforting.

Beckett's eyes darkened. "A great deal can happen in five days…" he said ominously.

* * *

In fact, however, very little happened. There was a virtually continuous stream of visitors coming in and out of the house, to such a point that Beckett and Victoria saw relatively little of each other over the passing of the days.

The day after their surprising and awkward literary discussion, Victoria's family paid her a visit. She took a turn with each of them individually around the garden – even her eldest brother, Byron, who was never at home anymore. She walked with Byron first, as she hadn't seen him in the longest time. She was immensely relieved when he said nothing about Beckett's unanswered proposal. Instead, he told her about a young woman whom he had decided to court, a girl Victoria didn't know who lived in a different city. Next she walked with Charles, who lectured her extensively on Beckett's extreme generosity to the family and told her she would be a fool to refuse the extremely generous offer he had extended her. Edmund followed, and he lectured her on what a terrible man Beckett was and adamantly ordered her to do anything possible to avoid marrying him. Her father followed Edmund, countering his command with emphatic orders of his own.

She expected more of the same when her mother came out, but her mother merely cupped her face in her hands, kissed her on the forehead, and said, "So many women like you, my dear, find their spirits crushed and their dreams destroyed when they sell themselves for the promise of wealth and status. You're a wise girl, even for your age; and although I want this marriage for you, and your father wants it for the family, I know what can become of women who choose husbands for the wrong reasons. Follow your heart."

There were no more words on their walk, but there remained a silent understanding between them, as two women who were similarly experienced in life and whose devotion to one another needed no words.

Her family remained for dinner, then left almost at once. Their departure left a gaping wound in Victoria's heart – as though she'd seen them for the last time, and they'd never be returning to her. Perhaps, in a way, this was the truth – considering what she'd chosen in regards to Beckett's request for her hand.

She'd made her decision; she knew what her answer to Beckett's dreaded proposal must be. There was no choice, really – not if she wanted to be free. She prepared her answer in her mind several thousand times as the last days drew to a close, practiced it until it was a short, neat, and simple speech. She had to frame every word correctly and carefully – or suffer dire consequences.

Oh, yes… Wednesday would most certainly be an interesting day…


	11. Wednesday, Day

Victoria awoke Wednesday to Beckett sitting on her bed, staring at her intently. Once she had blearily blinked at him once or twice, she sat up with a gasp and swore, "Bloody hell, Cutler, what are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to wake up," he said in amusement. "Happy birthday, my dear."

"Thank you," Victoria said groggily, rubbing her eyes and attempting to tame her wildly displaced blonde curls. "What do you want?"

"Wanting to wish you a happy birthday isn't enough?"

"Not for you, it isn't. If you're visiting me you must want something."

Beckett eyed her none-too-chastely. "There are a great deal of things I want from you," he said in a low voice. He shook his head as though to clear whatever thought he'd had from his mind. "I'm here, however, to claim my answer."

"You'll have it," Victoria sighed. "Just not right now."

Beckett's eyes flashed dangerously. "And why is it that I must wait?" he asked, his anger at these words barely concealed.

"Because I have an elaborate plan established for giving you your answer, and I don't feel you should ruin it by having me tell you now," she said irritably. "Have you no patience?"  
"Very little," Beckett replied with equal ire. "As much as I hate to ruin your little plan, Miss Thorne, I'd like to know now what your decision is."

"I'm afraid, my Lord, that you will just have to wait." Victoria stretched, then threw back her covers and leapt from bed. "What time is the masque?" she asked as she walked to her dressing screen. She could feel Beckett's eyes on her as she slipped behind it and removed her chemise.

"Seven," he said after a moment. "Shall I send for your maid?"

"Yes, please."

"MARY!"

The maid hustled in as soon as she was called, carrying two boxes. "The tailor came today," she said quietly. "He brought your masquerade dress and one other. I brought them upstairs for you."

"That poor man!" Victoria cried. "Has he worked constantly on these dresses for the past week?"

"I don't think the guards sent with him would permit him to stop," Beckett said with a small smile. "May I see you in your masquerade dress?"

"Of course… tonight," Victoria retorted cheekily.

Beckett sighed. "The other one, then."

She opened the first box and lifted from it the most beautiful dress of soft, peach-colored silk. It was trimmed in lace and pearls, and had a pair of peach slippers to match. It was without doubt the most beautiful garment Victoria had ever seen. She ran loving fingers over the dress, staring at it in awe. The maid studied her curiously. "Is there something wrong, milady?" she asked.

"No, no! Quite the contrary," she said quickly. "It's just… it's lovely."

"Let's get you dressed, then," the maid said, grabbing a fresh chemise and the other complex parts of Victoria's undergarments. Victoria gasped in pain as Mary pulled her corset ridiculously tight.

"I can't breathe," she gasped, her voice breathy.

"You'll be all right, milady," Mary said certainly.

Victoria grimaced as she sucked in a deep breath. "Easy for _you_ to say," she hissed. "Your corset isn't half as tight as mine."

"You must look perfect today," Mary replied evenly. Victoria had the sense that Mary was enacting some sort of perverse vengeance on her, perhaps for being wealthier or prettier or more privileged. Whatever the reason, Victoria decided at that moment that she despised Mary and that, at the nearest juncture in time, she would be finding herself a new maid.

It took a considerably lengthy period of time, but finally Victoria was fully dressed in the stunning gown. Mary brought her hairbrush, pins, and mirror behind the screen and carefully brushed out and set Victoria's hair. She also brought Victoria the long pearl necklace, which Victoria wrapped several times around her neck. Mary carefully examined her work, and then nodded decisively. "You're finished," she said.

Victoria would have sighed in relief if her corset would have permitted it. Instead, she sucked in another deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen. "Well?" she asked of Beckett, who was reading her diary nonchalantly. "What do you think?"

He looked up reluctantly, as though he didn't care in the slightest how she looked. The instant he took her in, however, his eyes widened in astonishment, and he snapped the diary shut as though it had no importance any longer. "You look stunning," he said sincerely.

"I'd better, for the tightness of this corset," she said, making a face. "I may faint by the end of today."

"I'll be there to catch you," Beckett assured her, still staring at her as though he didn't quite believe her real.

"I don't think that comforts me," Victoria laughed. She grew slightly uneasy when he continued to stare at her. "Shall we go down to breakfast?" she asked lightly.

Beckett blinked, then nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, standing and offering her his arm. She took it and let him lead her down to breakfast.

Mercer was standing outside the dining room door, arms folded in front of him as though he were guarding some sort of treasure. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Victoria. "Nice dress," he said easily, opening the door for her.

"Thank you," Victoria beamed. A compliment from Mercer was rare; Victoria would accept anything he offered her.

Beckett and Victoria ate breakfast in relative peace. He had an array of gifts to offer her, mostly jewelry and ancient artifacts from all over the world. Victoria was amazed at all that he'd given her and accepted everything with a quiet modesty that astonished Beckett. He'd expected only more disdain in return for what he'd lavished on her; instead she offered him shy thanks, blushing prettily. She still spent breakfast bantering with him, firing insults in his direction, but they were all in good humor.

He didn't dare hope that she would accept his proposal, yet the way in which she acted towards him throughout the day encouraged him to think that perhaps she would. He noticed she was wearing his ring – another good sign. And she spent the entire day with him of her own accord. They walked together in the gardens and spent a little time at her cottage, arguing about the merits of Shakespeare's sonnets. When Mercer interrupted them to announce that tea would be served soon, they went back to the house, still arguing passionately with each other.

"… but he was attempting to do something a little different with his sonnets, don't you see?" Victoria was saying.

"No, I don't," Beckett fired back. "They're all the same – ridiculously flowery love poems that the world could do without. The plays are much better."

"I'm not saying they aren't," Victoria said stubbornly, "I'm merely arguing that the sonnets have merit themselves."

"If you want to believe that," Beckett snorted.

"I do," Victoria said with a grin. "And nothing you say can change my mind. If you quoted some such flowery poem to me you might actually gain my heart."

"And to think, a few simple days ago you were advising that I try more intellectual poetry," Beckett laughed, stopping and facing her.

"Poems of love are different than poems of seduction," Victoria started to explain. "The poem you quoted was one focusing merely on physical aspects of a relationship – demanding them, in fact, though the lady was apparently not willing to grant him such favors. Poems of love, rather, are – "

He cut her off, cupping her face in his hands and planting a kiss on her mouth. She went still, returning the kiss despite her surprise. Oddly, it was he who pulled back, studying her intently for signs of repulsion or anger. Instead, her cheeks were aflame, her eyes dropping demurely to the floor. She tucked her lower lip beneath her two front teeth as though biting back a smile, then lifted her lace fan and coyly hid behind it.

He smiled. "I expected a slap for that," he told her.

"You deserve one," she replied, still blushing, "But I'm in too fine a mood to ruin it by blackening yours."

Beckett leaned back against the wall, shaking his head in perplexity. "I've no idea what to think of you, woman," he said in amazement. "Some days it seems all you want is to make my life miserable. Then there are days like today, where it actually seems as though you like me."

"It might all just be a front, you know," she teased.

"Then I wish you'd put up such a front more often," Beckett said. "It would make my life a great deal easier."

"God forbid I make your life easier," Victoria said impishly, grinning wickedly. She lightly slapped him on the arm with her fan and turned from him. "Tea's waiting for us," she said, moving away from him. "I know how you hate to miss your tea…"

Beckett watched her for a moment, studying her in puzzlement. Then he called, "Before we go, I two questions for you… in regards to two objects in your possession."

Victoria turned to him, one brow arched. "Yes?"

Beckett took her in briefly, drinking in her beauty, admiring what he hoped to God would soon be his. "That golden ring I mentioned previously," he said. "You're certain you've no idea where it is?"

Her face noticeably colored at this. "Certain, my Lord," she assured him.

"Strange," Beckett said, "Because Mercer tells me that you snitched it from me when you were eleven years old – a trinket you wished to keep to remind you of your future husband, which is how you thought of me at that point in your life according to Miss Whitlock."

"Damn those two miserable little conspirators!" Victoria cried. "I will never speak to them again!"

"Oh, don't say that," Beckett said, walking to her and taking her hands in his. "Cat, I hear, has a marvelous birthday present for you. After you receive it you can stop speaking to her."

"You make me seem so selfish," Victoria said, refusing to look at him. "All right, I took it. It's in my jewelry box on my dressing table, if you want it back."

"No," Beckett said with a satisfied smirk, "Keep it… as a token of my affections from early days."

"Ha!" Victoria snorted derisively. "You hardly would have looked twice at an eleven year old girl."

"As I recall, you were quite determined to catch my attention – and you did," he said. "Unless I remember incorrectly, you made quite an effort to give your opinion on every business matter your father brought to my attention."

She laughed. "So I did," she murmured.

He tilted her chin up. "Clearly, you've held my attention ever since," he said quietly. He leaned forward and kissed her again, but this time, it was she who pulled back – rather more quickly than the first time.

"You said you had something else to ask me about?" she said softly.

He sighed. "You've been sleeping with this under your pillow," he said, removing a compass from his frock coat pocket.

She drew in a sharp breath, turning bright red. "It's… it… it belonged to Orson," she said finally, head dropping. "I… forgot it was there."

Beckett didn't believe that for a minute. His face darkened at the thought that Orson still occupied a portion of her heart. "You should let him go," he said in a low voice.

"Far easier said than done," she whispered. "Please, give it back…"

His fingers clamped tightly around the article in question. He glared at it, as though he were looking directly into his enemy's face. He flipped open the compass lid and watched as it spun to point directly in front of him, towards Victoria. "A compass is quite an interesting gift for a lover," he said curiously. He turned and started to move away from her; strangely, the needle moved to a different position, still pointing at Victoria. He frowned slightly and turned his back to her. It spun southwards, pointing directly behind him – still at Victoria. "Strange compass," he said, turning back to her. "No matter where I move it points in the same general direction. Is it broken?"

"Maybe," Victoria said, moving closer and coming to stand at his side. "Where's it pointing?"

The needle moved until it was pointing at her again. Beckett stared hard at it, brow furrowed. "At you, apparently," he said. "It moved when you did." He looked at her penetratingly. "What exactly does this compass do?"

Victoria reached out for it, but he pulled it away. "It's just broken," she said quickly. "That's all."

He raised an eyebrow. "You truly are a terrible liar," he said. "What's it do, Tori? Something important, I take it."

She heaved a sigh. "It points to thing you want most in the world," she said. "Can I have it back now?"

His whole face seemed to light with excitement at this development. "Does it, now?" he said, flipping it open again and watching as the arrow moved to her again. "Well, you ought to feel quite special, then."

"I will when you return it to me," she said in frustration. "Please, Cutler, it's mine. I want it back."

"You can have it back, so long as I can see what it is _you_ want most," he said boldly.

She looked sharply at him. She hesitated a long time, but finally gave in. "Very well," she said, holding out her hand.

He returned the compass to her, watching as the arrow spun and pointed –

Directly to him.

They both stared at it in momentary shock. Victoria abruptly turned away from him, walking in a circle to stand directly behind him. He turned to look over her shoulder – and watched as the arrow turned once more, still pointing to him.

"I see," he breathed in her ear, laying his hands at her waist and turning her to face him again.

"Cutler…" she stuttered, plainly still in shock. Apparently she hadn't realized what she wanted any more than he had.

He smirked. "Surprised, are you?" he said.

"Yes," she said faintly, her eyes wide.

He chuckled. "I'm not," he told her – not true, but he couldn't keep himself from saying it. He moved to kiss her again, and did so when she didn't stop him. The intensity built between them, searing him. He slid one hand to the back of her head and pressed her mouth closer to his, pulling her body closer with one arm. She slid her arms around his neck, returning the kiss with a fierce passion he imagined she'd never shared with any other man, save Orson. He might easily have continued far longer, but Victoria jerked back and gasped out, "… can't breathe…!"

His eyes widened, remembering Victoria's earlier exclamation about her corset. He swept her up off the floor and carried her to a couch that he carefully set her upon. He sat next to her and waited for her to recover, watching with a worried frown as she pressed a hand to her stomach. "You may need to loosen your corset for the dance tonight," he noted wryly.

"God, yes," Victoria whimpered. "It bloody hurts…"

He ran his fingers lightly against her cheek in a soothing gesture. She didn't seem to notice, still caught up in breathing as best she could. After they'd been sitting for a few minutes, she seemed to be breathing fairly normally. He was about to suggest they finally go to tea when she spoke.

"Cutler, why do you find it so easy to believe that the compass is… well… magical?" she asked suddenly.

He was taken aback by the question. "I… I've seen many strange things in my time with the Company," he said. "Such objects exist all over the world."

"Do they, indeed?" she said. There was a hint of something dark behind the words. Beckett was about to inquire about her meaning when she stood, turning to him with a sweet and innocent smile. "I believe, my Lord, that your tea is growing cold."

He stood. "I suppose it is," he agreed. He offered her his arm. "I don't suppose you planned to give me your answer any time soon?" he said offhandedly.

She smiled secretly. "Not yet," she said calmly. "Just wait."

Beckett gave her a sidelong glance. "I _have_ waited," he pointed out, "For a very, _very_ long time…"

"You'll just have to wait a little longer," she said shortly, and that ended it.

The day passed pleasantly enough, although Beckett spent the entire day awaiting whatever grandiose plan his (he hoped) future wife intended to enact – but nothing happened. She walked with him again in the gardens, fell asleep on a bench in one of the orchards, and didn't stir until he carried her into the house and set her down on the couch in her library. When he made to leave, she awoke quite suddenly and gasped, "I wasn't asleep!"

"Like hell you weren't," he laughed, coming back into the room. "You've been sleeping for nearly two hours."

"Dear God," Victoria said, standing and critically studying her quite disheveled coiffure. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"

"You looked sweet," he said, "Which, I imagine, only happens when you sleep. I thought I ought to treasure the moment."

"Presumably, my Lord, you'll be sleeping with me every night in the near future," she said as she attempted to replace a loose curl.

"Ah, so you're accepting!" Beckett said triumphantly.

Victoria looked calmly at him. "I believe I said 'presumably,' my Lord," she said, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes narrowed. "Damn you," he growled. "When are you going to give me my answer, wench?"

"Soon, if you cease calling me a wench," Victoria said impertinently. "It's dark out; it must be time for me to prepare for the masque."

"It is," Beckett said with a nod. "Shall I have my answer before the masque?"

"When you see me, you'll know your answer," she said evenly, moving smoothly past him out the door.

"Wait – Victoria!" He made to go after her, but she hurried down the hall and disappeared into her rooms. He frowned and stalked off to his own chambers to prepare for the masque, impatient and even more irritated than before. He was usually very good at waiting, but for this…

Well, he'd simply been waiting too damn long.

Mercer noted Beckett's agitation as he handed Beckett the various parts of his costume, including an elaborate mask designed to resemble a panther. "When's she going to answer you?" Mercer asked as Beckett fiddled in displeasure with the cuffs of his frock coat.

"She says I'll know when I see her costume," he said, frustration edging his tone. "If she's dressed as a pirate, I'm going to hang that miserable bastard Orson from a wall with irons and listen to him scream as I skin him alive."

"You know," Mercer said thoughtfully, "She sent me out to find her a Company flag. Think it had something to do with her costume?"

Beckett stiffened abruptly at this news. "It had better," he said after a moment. "Mercer, did you notice the compass she's had hidden under her pillow."

"I did, sir. Bloody thing's broken, not much use," Mercer said with a derisive snort.

"It's not broken," Beckett said. "It directs whoever holds it towards what that person wants most."

Mercer looked astonished. "Really?" he said. "A useful thing. Is it hers?"

"She told me Orson gave it to her, but I can't imagine that's true," Beckett said contemplatively. "If he had such an object I doubt he'd simply toss it to his lover. It's someone else's; of that I'm certain. In fact, I believe I've seen it before."

"Oh? Where?"

"That's the hell of the matter," Beckett said angrily. "I can't remember. But it looks very familiar. Whoever gave that compass to her is a mutual acquaintance. And for me to have noticed that compass, I must know the person quite well."

"How many pirates are you that familiar with?" Mercer asked dryly. "It must belong to a pirate, after all… a nobleman would hardly pay attention to a compass."

"True," Beckett agreed. "But the only pirate I know well – " His eyes narrowed abruptly. " – is Jack Sparrow," he finished. "That compass belongs to Jack! I've seen it on his belt!"

"Then why does Victoria have it?" Mercer questioned with a frown. "You think Sparrow's made a deal with her?"

"He wouldn't have left her something so valuable if he hadn't," Beckett said, gritting his teeth. "Bloody hell… I may yet kill that woman…"

"You won't," Mercer said certainly. "Not yet, at least. You've no proof that she means to betray you."

"What would Jack possibly want with my wife?" Beckett asked himself, ignoring Mercer's comment.

"Most likely what any other man would want with your wife," Mercer said in amusement.

Beckett turned on Mercer with a vicious growl. "If he lays a hand on her, I really will skin him alive!" he snarled.

"Although he doubtlessly finds Victoria attractive, I can't imagine that would be the sole reason he would come to her," Mercer soothed. "He must have some other pressing need."

Beckett laughed bitterly. "A more pressing need than his desires? Jack Sparrow? The only thing more pressing for him is the need to protect himself."

"And what do you have that could protect Jack?" Mercer asked.

Beckett's eyes widened. "Excalibur," he said in a low voice. "He knows about Excalibur. And so does Victoria – just as I'd feared."

He began to pace again, his face troubled. "We have to keep that sword out of her reach," he said finally.

"You don't seriously think she'd still give it to the pirates?" Mercer said incredulously. "After Orson's betrayal, I don't think she wants anything to do with them."

"We can only hope," Beckett sighed. "I suppose I shall have to wait until I receive her answer to know…" He stopped abruptly and glanced at the clock. "Bloody hell!" he swore. He grabbed his mask from the table and strode rapidly towards the door. He hurled it open – and found, much to his surprise, a very astonished-looking Catherine Whitlock.

"Miss Whitlock!" he said sharply. "Have you been eavesdropping?"

She looked genuinely hurt by this insinuation. "Of course not!" she cried. "I was just… looking for Victoria."

"A bit bloody early, aren't you?" he said crossly. "I haven't even seen her yet. Let me look at her costume first and then I'll bring her to you. Mercer can keep you company."

If Beckett hadn't been so distracted, he would have noticed the smile that broke across Catherine's face. "That will be fine, my Lord," she said, dropping an elegant curtsy. "Take your time."

"I intend to," he said absently, turning and hurrying down the hall without another word.

Catherine looked after him, perplexed, until Mercer spoke. "Looking for Victoria?" he repeated, cocking an eyebrow at her.

She blushed. "I might have been," she said with a huff.

"Were you?"

"Well… no," she confessed, blushing even more. "I… ah… wanted to show you my costume." She stepped back and turned in a circle so Mercer could admire the beautiful blue and green dress complete with a tail full of real peacock feathers.

"You… you look lovely," he said awkwardly. He was not remotely used to complimenting a woman, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

She beamed. "Thank you," she said, holding up her mask.

"It doesn't suit you, though," he said, frowning thoughtfully.

She looked crestfallen. "You don't think so?" she said sadly.

Mercer realized he'd said something stupid. "I mean, it… it's just peacocks usually represent vanity," he said, stumbling over his words. "And… well… you're just… you're not vain at all. Even though you'd have every right to be. If…" He trailed off into embarrassed silence, mentally berating himself for even opening his mouth.

She smiled sweetly, understanding what he meant despite the clumsy way in which he'd said it. "Thank you," she said softly. After a moment of awkward silence, she asked, "Are you coming to the ball?"

"No," he said fervently. "No, masquerades and the like are not places for someone of my rank and personality."

Catherine looked surprisingly sad to hear this. "Oh," she said quietly, looking down.

Suddenly Mercer wished he _was_ going. "I mean, I could go," he said hurriedly. "Beckett told me if I wanted to I could come. I just… it's not a place for a mere clerk. And I don't have a costume. But it sounds… quite extraordinary."

"You could at least sit in the balcony above the dance floor," Catherine suggested cautiously. "That way you could… ah… see what everyone's doing, but not be seen."

Mercer nodded quickly. "Yes," he said. "I could do that."

"You should," Catherine advised. "It will be quite the spectacle."

"I'll be there," he assured her.

Her face lit up at this. "Wonderful!" she said. "Maybe I'll come up."

"You'll be too busy dancing with some rich suitor," Mercer said, a note of envy creeping into his voice despite his best efforts to keep it out.

Her smile was mysterious as she turned away. "If I choose," she said airily. "But I might prefer to sit instead. It does get so hot in those ballrooms… Good evening, Mr. Mercer."

"Evening, Miss Whitlock," he said, bowing slightly to her. "Shall I tell Miss Thorne you called on her?"

"No," she said, waving a hand. "She doesn't need to know."

"As you wish, Miss Whitlock," he said with another small bow.

She paused on the stairs. "It's Cat, Mr. Mercer," she said, glancing significantly at him over her shoulder.

He flushed. "It's David… Cat," he said quietly.

She smiled. "Good evening, David," she said. She hesitated, then turned and rushed down the stairs, hurrying towards the ballroom.

Mercer watched her go, then shook his head and muttered, "What the hell just happened?"

He didn't give himself time to ponder the answer. He turned and strode rapidly in the direction of the balcony. The ball might be quite interesting, after all…

* * *

Beckett knocked lightly on Victoria's door, doing his best not to fidget. Damn the wench for making him so nervous. Damn her for making him wait so long. Damn her for being so stubborn… and so beautiful…

The door opened, but it was the maid who answered. "Mary," Beckett said, keeping his voice carefully controlled. "Where's Victoria?"

"Here," he heard her voice call from one of her adjoining rooms. "I'll be out in a minute."

"I'm coming in," he called back.

"No!" she said sharply. "You can't see it until it's finished!"

"Like hell I can't!" Beckett retorted, pushing past Mary and moving towards Victoria's voice. "I am going to come in, right now, and _you_ aren't going to –!"

His words were cut off when the door flew open and Victoria stormed out, hands on her hips. "Damn you and your natural impatience!" she exclaimed, glaring at him.

He, however, wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her costume, a slow smile growing.

The dress was, essentially, a map of the world, with England decorating the bodice of the dress and the rest of the continents circling beneath it on the skirt. The dress was trimmed with pearls and jewels from all over the world – items that trading companies like East India almost always carried back with them. A long cape hung from the back – the East India Trading Company flag. To top off the ensemble, Victoria carried a wooden mask in her hand, carved, apparently, from the wood usually used to crate and ship the Company's cargo. Written on the mask in small, delicate lettering, were the words, "Property of," and a picture of the Company's symbol.

"Property of the East India Trading Company, my dear?" he said with a characteristic smirk.

"Isn't all the world their property, my Lord?" she replied softly.

"Are you?" he asked, staring intently into her eyes.

She bit her lip, drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

He smiled brilliantly, swept her off the floor, and kissed her fiercely. This unusual display of emotion left the maid gaping in astonishment as they broke apart, Victoria giggling and Beckett looking nearly ecstatic. "I take it you're pleased," Victoria laughed.

"'Pleased' is too mild a word," Beckett replied with a grin. "I _will_ be announcing our engagement tonight."

"I assumed as much," she said, reaching up to pat her hair carefully into place. "You wouldn't give up such a chance to flaunt the wealth you've gained."

"Neither would you, if you'd worked as hard as I have," he told her.

"I have worked as hard as you," Victoria fired back. "I've merely been working against what you want."

"Unfortunate," he said. He tilted his head to one side, frowning slightly. "What made you change your mind?" he asked.

"A lot of things," she said, moving away from him. He caught her hand before she could walk away completely and pulled her back. She looked at him in irritation. "Can we discuss this later?" she requested. "I hear guests downstairs."

"Ah, yes," Beckett sighed. "I forgot how late we were. Very well, I'll visit you before you go to sleep tonight."

Victoria nodded shortly, accepted his arm when offered it, and permitted him to lead her out and to the ballroom.

Mary watched them go, then turned and hurtled towards the kitchens. This the other servants needed to hear…


	12. Wednesday, Night

The first thing Victoria noticed, when she and Beckett made their entrance into the ballroom, was that the place was literally packed from wall to wall with hundreds of people. Victoria was certain she didn't know that many aristocrats. "Who _are_ all these people?" she whispered to Beckett as a hush fell over the room when their guests began to realize they had appeared.

"Friends of yours, associates of mine, and people so ridiculously important we couldn't leave them from the guest list without seriously threatening our social status," Beckett responded in a low voice. "It's a delicate affair, hosting a gala such as this."

"Typically when I celebrate my birthday I only invite those who are actually my acquaintances," Victoria said a bit crossly.

"You are no longer a mere merchant's daughter," Beckett replied calmly. "You are now the fiancé of a vastly important lord, and as such, you will find there are many new rules that you must obey, lest you offend some family of significance. Every move you make will be under constant scrutiny, so I advise you to tread lightly. I'll be with you every moment of this evening to prevent such missteps, but be cautious nonetheless."

Victoria suddenly felt very nervous. "That could prove difficult," she said. "I've never been one to obey the rules."

"Oh, I'm most aware of that," Beckett chuckled, "But I'm afraid you've no time for such frivolous games any longer." Beckett led her off the magnificent grand staircase and motioned casually to the nearby musicians to begin playing their dance music. They did so at once, and sound resumed quite abruptly within the room.

Guests began making their way towards the couple, but Beckett firmly guided Victoria away from almost everyone who made to greet them, even if she knew them. Finally, he paused long enough to exchange pleasantries with a lord in Parliament, a close confidante to the King. Beckett introduced Victoria, who did her best curtsy and attempted to be polite. Beckett casually added that Victoria was his fiancé, and at those words, the lord's wife seemed almost to pounce, as though she had gleaned some vastly important scrap that none possessed – which, when Victoria reflected on it, was true.

Otherwise, the introductions didn't last long, and they were soon moving again. Almost as soon as they'd departed, the lady was hurrying off to her circle of friends and whispering to them in a low voice – no doubt telling them of Victoria and Beckett's engagement. Victoria was certain the news would be spread about the entire ballroom before they could greet even a quarter of the guests.

Victoria quickly began to understand that they were acknowledging families and couples according to their status and not, as she had expected, by how well they knew them. About halfway through greeting the wealthiest and most important families, they met with the Whitlocks, as they were (fortunately) of that special upper crust that was greeted first. Victoria made certain they spent a bit longer speaking with the Whitlocks than they had other couples. They were warm and pleasant and Victoria wanted to embrace both of them and break into tears, so relieved was she to be speaking with someone who was genuinely friendly and not simply acting.

Even though both Lord and Lady Whitlock were sociable in manner, Catherine's mother was noticeably distracted as they spoke. "Have you seen Cat, dear?" she asked Victoria finally. "She said she was going to look for you."

Victoria frowned slightly. "No, I've not seen her yet tonight," she said. "I didn't realize she was even looking for me."

Beckett quickly jumped in. "I had forgotten to tell you that she came upstairs," he said. "I left her with Mr. Mercer when I went to retrieve you."

"Ah, I see!" Victoria said, quickly quashing a smile when Lord and Lady Whitlock looked at her strangely. "She's so sweet, seeking me out like that. I'm sure she's nearby, Lady Whitlock; the house is large and easy to get lost in. She'll find her way here soon enough."

Almost as though the words were magical, Cat suddenly appeared. "Cat!" Victoria shouted across the room to her. Beckett shot Victoria a warning glare that told her screaming at someone across the dance floor was not acceptable, and she bit her lip and hung her head abashedly.

The damage had already been done, and it was, fortunately, relatively little. There were several disapproving stares, but, the guests murmured among themselves, she was young and not as high born as her suitor. She would learn how to be respectable soon enough.

And anyway the shout had served its purpose; Catherine turned, spotted the small group in the center of the room, and made her way towards them. "Hello, Tori!" she said brightly, delicately embracing her friend. "You look wonderful!"

"As do you!" Victoria said, admiring her friend's peacock costume. "I'm sorry I missed you upstairs."

"Oh, don't worry," Catherine said with a mysterious smile. "I found ways to entertain myself." She quickly added, when her parents began to look startled, "The house has so many interesting rooms – there must be objects from every corner of the world!"

"There are indeed," Beckett said. "I have traveled to many places with the Company and on every trip I find something worthwhile to bring home."

Catherine nodded her agreement, but their pleasantries were cut short when the Harris family began to approach. "I'm afraid we must leave you," Beckett said, tugging slightly on Victoria's arm and pulling her away despite her longing glance towards the Whitlocks. "I'm sure we'll see you again later tonight."

"Of course," Lord Whitlock said with a nod. "Good evening to you, Lord Beckett."

"And also to you."

They would have gone to speak with the Harris family if Catherine hadn't torn away from her parents' sides and run back to them. "Beckett, have you seen Dav – Mr. Mercer?" she asked in a low voice.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that he was not attending," he said.

"Well, when we spoke earlier he mentioned he might be here," Catherine said earnestly. "Are you sure he didn't come?"

"Not certain, no," Beckett said doubtfully, "But these sorts of gatherings are not something he enjoys. May I inquire as to why you are so intently seeking him?"

She flushed and dropped her head. "No reason, milord," she said softly. "I just… I merely hoped that…"

Beckett was frowning as she mumbled a hurried answer, so low that he couldn't hear. Before he could question her further, Victoria searched the room for Mercer and finally spotted him, pacing uneasily on the floor above the dance hall. "He's up there, Cat," Victoria said quickly, motioning in his direction with her head.

Catherine looked up, saw him, and smiled brilliantly. "Thank you," she said distractedly, and without another word she began to push her way through the crowd.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Beckett hissed to Victoria when Cat was out of earshot.

"She likes him," Victoria said simply, a wide smile crossing her face. "Anyone can see that."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Beckett said tersely.

Victoria frowned and looked back at him. "Why are you so concerned?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be happy for them?"

"Happy?" Beckett repeated incredulously. "Happy that my fiancé is encouraging my clerk to seek a woman infinitely higher in status as his future wife, which will most certainly bring ruination and heartbreak on them both?"

"As though you care about anyone else's ruination and heartbreak," Victoria said resentfully.

"I care about his," Beckett snapped. "Mercer is crucial to my operations. If I lose him, I lose my most valuable asset."

"Is that all people are to you?" Victoria demanded angrily. "Assets with whose lives you can bargain?"

"For the most part, yes," Beckett replied flatly. "That's why I'm so bloody good at what I do."

"That's why you're a cold-blooded and heartless bastard who had to manipulate the woman you desired into marrying you instead of wooing her like a normal person!" Victoria cried. "Your own clerk can win the heart of the woman he loves, but you have tear it from me by force!"

She had crossed a boundary, and she knew it. Beckett set his jaw and his eyes grew cold and hard. He turned with a surprisingly calm demeanor to the waiting Harris family, who, fortunately, appeared not to have heard most of what had been said, although they clearly recognized it as a fight. "Excuse us for a moment," he said evenly, gaining a death grip on Victoria's arm and leading her from the main dance floor into a side chamber. Once inside, he forcefully sat her down in a chair and slammed the doors shut. "Why are you so ridiculously stupid?" he snarled the moment he was certain they would not be heard.

Victoria drew back at the insult. "Why are _you_ so cruel?" she fired back. "You never believe in anything – hope, kindness, love, family, none of it except currency!"

"And I, may I remind you, am the more successful for it," he pointed out. "You never believe in anything save fairy tales and dreams that will never come true – and we see where that's gotten you."

"So it's better to be hardened and hateful towards the entire world, you think?" Victoria said harshly.

"Yes!" Beckett said furiously. "Yes, it is! Because if you're as unfeeling as the rest of the world, you can triumph over every single obstacle that threatens to stand in your way. No one can defeat you when you feel nothing."

"So you feel nothing for me," Victoria said heatedly.

"Yes. No! … I don't…" And instead of answering the question, he turned and banged his fist against the door. He stood silent for a long while, his back to her, while he considered. Victoria waited tensely, hands folded in her lap so tightly that her knuckles went white.

Finally, he spoke again. "Everyone in the aristocracy has learned to harden themselves to the world, to hate everything except the wealth that permits them to rule. They dance around a complex pattern of steps they call social rules, but really all it is, is a game. Whoever kicks the most people from his path; whoever can freeze every single emotion in his body save for greed and desire; whoever is able to earn the most money and the most titles, is the victor. And if you want to survive, then you _must_ be the victor. That's all I'm trying to do – to be the victor. And every single man and woman out there hopes for the same…"

He stopped, turned, and looked back at her, as though she were a puzzle he could not quite put together. "… Except for you," he finished. "Somehow, your head and your heart are alive with thoughts and dreams and feelings. You defied every social norm civilization attempted to force on you without even intending to. You aren't a money-seeking slut desperate only for your own salvation. You want freedom instead of riches, love instead of security. And you want that for everyone, too, don't you? You want it for Catherine, and for Mercer, and for Rosemary and maybe even all those prattling wenches that you despise. You even want it for me… don't you?"

She briefly considered this suggestion, then nodded slowly. "I suppose so," she said softly.

He approached her slowly, as though she was a wounded animal and he was afraid to startle her. He knelt by her chair, reached up and cupped her face in his hands. "Even now," he said in amazement, "Even now, you aren't bitter. Even now you're still hoping for a fairy tale – not for you, but for someone else. How do you do it, Tori? How do you feel everything as deeply as you do and survive?"

She smiled sadly. "It isn't easy," she said quietly. "It never has been, but it's been harder recently. You certainly don't make it simple."

"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely. "You have something rare and beautiful – God knows how much I love the rare and beautiful – and I need to possess it, to call it mine." He studied her closely. "You don't understand."

"No, I understand," she sighed. "I just wish it wasn't that you needed to _possess_. But then, I can't hope for love from the battle-hardened victor of this game, can I?"

He looked at her almost apologetically. "I can't offer you what I don't have," he said.

"At least you're honest." She stood, and he rose as she did. "You're concerned about the repercussions of Mercer and Cat's relationship."

"He could be killed, Tori – not to mention what will happen to Catherine's reputation and fortune."

"But he loves her!"

"It's not enough."

Tori wanted to cry. "I know," she said miserably. "I only wish it was."

She didn't know Beckett had come up behind her until his arms wrapped around her waist. "Tori," he murmured, his breath tickling her neck. "You're too old to be hoping for your dreams to come true, even vicariously."

"I didn't realize I was not allowed to hold out some hope for the betterment of society." Victoria stepped out of his embrace, but turned to him with a lost expression on her face. "I suppose we ought to go back," she said distantly.

Beckett made no move to return, studying her face intently. "Did you really love him?" he asked.

She looked startled. "Orson?" she asked. He nodded. She looked even more confused than before. "I… I thought I did," she said, her brow furrowing. "I certainly believed I was destined to be with him. I thought he believed the same of me – but apparently I was wrong in that regard as well."

"So you didn't love him?"

She paused a long time. Finally, she said, "No, I'm certain I love him… only I'm not sure how anymore."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "There's more than one way, is there?"

"There must be," Victoria said surely. "There are so many sorts of people and so many sorts of relationships, how can there only be one sort of love?"

"That's unusually perceptive for a girl who typically has her head in the clouds."

"I thought we were attempting to move beyond this fight."

"Did you?" Beckett stepped toward her. "I suppose we were," he agreed, raising a finger contemplatively to her lips and then snapping his hands behind his back again. "My apologies. This is not the best time for a fight, is it?"

"Not particularly, my Lord." She moved closer to him – uncomfortably so – and folded her arms behind her back as well. "I'm not sure you're truly sorry," she said.

"Shall I prove it to you?" He cupped her face in his hands, leaned forward, and kissed her – rather deeply for a man who had just been arguing with her vehemently and nastily. He pulled back, leaned his forehead against hers, and murmured, "Forgive me, Tori. I'm truly sorry."

"I still don't believe you," Victoria said with a small smile, "But I'll accept your apology. It is, admittedly, the best I've ever received."

"Even from Orson?" Beckett ventured, quirking an eyebrow once more.

"I was referring to the apology overall, not the kiss itself."

"The kiss was the apology. Apparently you didn't notice."

"I believe there was a spoken 'sorry' at the end of that kiss."

"Irrelevant. The kiss was my gift to you to indicate my sincere regret that I ever upset you. The spoken apology was a fortunate addition."

"That being the case, I may have to disappoint you – I've had better."

"Is that so?" Beckett said, temper flaring slightly. "I shall have to remedy that." He caught her arm and dragged her back to him. She offered surprisingly little resistance as he kissed her repeatedly – so much so that when he released her she had to drop into a chair to catch her breath.

"Still had better?" he asked with a smirk.

"Maybe," she said peevishly, which indicated that he was doing better than she let on. "If you didn't feel the need to dominate so much you'd be the best."

Beckett looked outraged. "You swooned the second I released you!" he cried indignantly. "You're so dizzy you can't even stand!"

"You overwhelmed me. That isn't necessarily a good thing." She rose from her seat – a bit unsteadily – and came to stand at his side, pointedly taking his arm. "I believe the Harris family has been waiting far too long," she said.

"Damn!" Beckett swore, remembering rather abruptly that he had shunted them to the side in favor of arguing with Victoria privately. "They won't be pleased."

"Then we ought to make amends."

"Don't expect me to kiss Lady Harris or her wretched daughter," Beckett warned. "That particular form of making amends is reserved strictly for you."

"It had better be," Victoria said, a hint of jealousy flaring in her green eyes.

Beckett smirked when he noticed her resentment at this thought but wisely opted not to point it out. He led her to the door and opened it – only to find a rather large crowd of young women waiting innocently on the other side, led by none other than Charlotta Harris and the unbearable gossip Emma Clark.

"Lord Beckett," Charlotta said in a breathy voice, dropping a very deep curtsy. She rose and nodded curtly to Victoria. "Miss Thorne," she added, almost as an afterthought. She turned back to Beckett with a nearly sickening frown of concern. "Is everything all right? I was concerned when I saw how quickly you rushed off. I would hate to think that a couple who by all appearances is quite settled might be fighting."

Beckett made to reply, but it was Victoria's frigid voice that answered as she moved noticeably closer to him. "You will forgive our rather hasty departure, Miss Harris," she said icily, wrapping her arms around Beckett's waist and smiling slightly when he slid one arm around her slender shoulders. "You understand, of course, a newly engaged couple wanting to steal a few moments to themselves." Suddenly, she looked falsely abashed. "Oh, but you wouldn't understand," she said in pretended sympathy, "Never having been proposed to yet… forgive me my insensitive remark, I simply don't think before I speak."

Charlotta quite resembled a fish in the way that her mouth flapped open and closed after this malicious and spiteful speech. She turned to Beckett. "My lord, you're engaged to… to Miss Thorne?" she repeated, aghast.

Beckett smiled serenely. "Why, yes," he said. "I'm surprised you weren't expecting it, Miss… ah…?" He paused, glancing inquiringly at Victoria as though he didn't quite recall Charlotta's name. This was an act, but it was plain Charlotta couldn't tell. She appeared even more stricken than before when she realized he was uncertain who she was.

"Miss Harris," Victoria supplied, lightly slapping him with her lovely lace fan. "You ought to know that!" she said reproachfully. "Miss Harris has spoken of you so often. I was under the impression you were close acquaintances."

Beckett looked mildly perplexed. "Miss Harris – you are Lord Harris' daughter, yes?" The girl nodded frantically. "Ah. I can't quite recall where I might have met you."

"We danced together at the Whitlock's," Charlotta said lamely.

"Ah, well then! There are so many young ladies I've danced with, it's difficult to remember them all. Forgive me."

Charlotta looked as though she might die from humiliation as all her friends stared her down with violent hatred. Charlotta had been quick to give the impression that Beckett would be proposing to her any day, and every young lady who had recently joined her social circle had been firmly convinced that it would be so. To find that he didn't even know her name was nothing short of a betrayal of their trust.

Just to complete Charlotta's mortification, Beckett added in the condescending voice of an adult speaking to a child, "I was hoping to speak to your parents. Do you know where they are, Miss Harris?"

Charlotta pointed to her right, her face flushed a very deep shade of red. "They're speaking to the Wellingtons," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I see them!" Victoria said excitedly. She pulled back from Beckett, but her fingers locked tightly with his and she tugged him with the eagerness of a child towards Rosemary. "Good evening, Miss Harris," she called over her shoulder. "Nice speaking with you."

When they were far enough out of earshot, both of them burst out laughing. "That was ridiculously cruel," Beckett informed her. "You're not nearly as naïve as I'd thought you to be. And was that jealousy I sensed? I admit, my dear, I'm astonished!"

"You'll find I'm full of surprises, my Lord," Victoria said, eyeing him so suggestively that he was more than halfway tempted to drag her back to the safely enclosed room that stood only a few yards away and stay there with her for the rest of the night. However, she turned away and began hurrying towards Rosemary – a great disappointment, after the look she'd been giving him. He followed her with incredible reluctance, not pleased at the thought of seeing Rosemary.

He made certain to greet the Harris family first when he arrived – a slight that Rosemary's father didn't notice, but that his daughter clearly saw. Rosemary's blue eyes narrowed abruptly when Beckett greeted the Harris couple and she turned away from him, refusing to speak to him. Victoria noticed her chilly manner, but Beckett didn't give her a chance to speak to her friend. "Lord and Lady Harris," he said quickly, his arm snaking around Victoria's tightly corseted waist and pulling her in their direction. "I believe you've met my fiancé?"

Rosemary's head whipped in their direction at those words. "Fiancé?" she repeated sharply.

Beckett continued to ignore her, but Victoria didn't. "Yes," she said, her voice surprisingly even and calm as she displayed her engagement ring for Rosemary's scrutiny. "Lord Beckett proposed several days ago."

"So I heard," Rosemary said bitingly – clearly she and Cat had been exchanging stories.

"Then why so surprised, Miss Wellington?" Beckett asked irritably, challenging her with his eyes.

Rosemary had a ready retort on her tongue, but it was a man who responded. "The timing, Lord Beckett, quite surprised her. She was expecting you to wait until after the hubbub of Victoria's eighteenth birthday."

Beckett smiled slightly. "Ah, Lord Presbery," he said with a small bow to the man who had just approached. "May I assume that you and Rosemary are acquainted, then?"

"Oh, we know each other too well," Rosemary said sourly as Lord Presbery none-too-subtly laid a hand on her waist. "Lord Presbery is – "

" – Currently courting my daughter," Richard Wellington, Rosemary's father, said quickly, interrupting her before she could say something inappropriate. "And we're _delighted_, aren't we, my dear?"

Rosemary's expression said quite enough about her delight. Presbery appeared pleasantly oblivious. "She's a charming lady, sir," he said with a small bow to Richard.

"Not the adjective I would have chosen, but very well," Beckett muttered. Victoria smacked him with her fan, somehow maintaining an aristocratic smile the entire time.

"We were just speaking with your daughter, Lord Harris," Victoria said, smoothly changing the subject.

"Oh, yes," Lord Harris said quickly, anxious to avoid what was clearly going to become a very nasty fight. "She ran off some time ago; I've no idea where she's gotten to."

"I don't think you need to worry," Beckett said. "She was with a multitude of friends."

"Yes, she's quite popular, our girl," Lady Harris said proudly. "I admit, I'm surprised you didn't see more of her, Lord Beckett."

"I'm afraid we very rarely crossed paths, my Lady," Beckett said with mock regret. "She and I did not run in the same circles, I suppose."

"Pity," Lady Harris said haughtily, eyeing Victoria with great distaste. "You might have found yourself with far nobler blood and a good deal more money if you had."

Victoria bristled at this slight on her family. She would have said something equally rude, if Beckett hadn't come to her rescue instantly. "Already possessing noble blood and wealth myself, Lady Harris, I felt that wit, charm, and beauty were better qualities to seek," he said airily. "Good evening to you."

He turned his back the Harris family and said amiably, "Lord Presbery, perhaps you and Miss Wellington would care to take a turn around the gardens with us?"

"We'd be delighted," Presbery said, taking Rosemary's arm and following Beckett and Victoria as they moved through the ballroom. They paused several times to exchange pleasantries with their more important guests, Victoria's family included, but these pauses were always brief and they had soon made their way to the gardens.

"That wretched, nasty, pernicious slut!" Victoria burst out when they finally were standing outside. She imitated Lady Harris' insults in a shrill and piercing voice. "'Pity, that, Cutler, you might have married better blood and money if you'd picked _my_ empty-headed, pig-faced, disease-ridden harlot of a daughter!'"

"Do I sense an undercurrent of violent hatred, or am I merely imagining things?" Presbery asked in amusement.

"Don't mock me!" Victoria cried. "How can she say things like that of me? Just because I'm not as high born as she is, she finds me unworthy! She's never been so unkind to me before!"

"She's angry that a man of Beckett's stature chose you over her daughter," Rosemary soothed.

"Besides, _I_ obviously don't believe you unworthy, and it's _my_ opinion that matters, isn't it?" Beckett pointed out, cupping on hand to her cheek. "I'm not going to change my mind just because Lady Harris thinks I made the wrong decision. That witch knows nothing about wise choices."

"Very true," Presbery said seriously. "Look at who _she_ married!"

Victoria laughed despite herself at this. "I didn't expect my station in life to be attacked, I suppose, just because you finally won," she sighed, leaning her head on Beckett's shoulder.

"Expect to be attacked often," Beckett told her. "You're enviably wedded now and that's going to bother a lot of people. As I said – any misstep, and they'll leap on it like carrion fowl on a corpse."

"Lovely," Victoria said, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the metaphor. "Not only has my family and station been insulted, I'm now being compared to a corpse."

"That isn't what I meant and you know it," Beckett said in exasperation. He looked behind them at the shining light of the ballroom. "I suppose we ought to make our way back," he sighed.

"Can't I at least say a proper hello to my friend?" Victoria asked irritably.

"If you allow her nothing else, at least permit her that," Rosemary said to him.

Beckett rolled his eyes and released her. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But we can't be away too long, so be brief."

Rosemary detached from Presbery and grabbed Victoria's arm, pulling her quickly in the direction of the garden. "We'll return when we feel like it!" she yelled over her shoulder, and then took off running with Victoria in tow, laughing brightly.

Beckett glowered but made no attempt to chase them down. "I really hate that woman," he growled.

"Which one?" Presbery asked in amusement.

"You know which one," Beckett snapped. He paused, then asked, "How goes it with the Lady Whore?"

Presbery heaved a sigh. "She's… quite a handful," he said. "And she truly, vehemently hates me. Although she did offer herself to me the first day I visited."

"You evaded your chaperone on the first day?" Beckett said, looking impressed.

"_What_ chaperone?" Presbery snorted. "She manipulated her father so well, he was convinced we wouldn't need a chaperone."

"You almost have to admire the woman," Beckett said, shaking his head. "Think you can keep a leash on her for three more months?"

"Does it matter so much anymore? You're already engaged."

"Tori, dearly though I love her, is a volatile woman and may change her mind at any minute," Beckett said resignedly. "I won't believe she's truly consented until I wake up the morning after the wedding with her in my bed."

"She's _that_ resistant?" Presbery questioned, shocked.

Beckett chuckled. "Oh, believe me, Presbery," he said wryly, "You've no idea."

* * *

Victoria didn't want to wander too far from the house – after all, the masquerade there was being held in her honor – so she stopped Rosemary in one of the nearest gardens. "Wait," she said, pulling her hand away from her friend. "We shouldn't go far."

"Oh, why not, Tori?" Rosemary asked. "We could both run away right now – run for miles and escape those two bastards who dare to think they can dominate us."

"Oh, please," Victoria snorted. "You wouldn't get very far in that dress – which I love, by the way." Rosemary was dressed as a tiger; her dress was deep black with bright orange accents highlighting various parts of the gown. The neckline was ridiculously low – so low, in fact, that Victoria was amazed that Rosemary's breasts were actually still contained within the dress. "If you dislike William Presbery so much, then why are you wearing such an exposing dress?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If you dislike Cutler Beckett so much, then why are you marrying him?" Rosemary retorted. She studied her friend with a concerned frown. "He's been out to crush you from the moment he met you," she said. "And I never thought he would. But he's won, hasn't he?"

"Maybe not."

It was not Victoria who had spoken but a man. Victoria and Rosemary both turned quickly and saw that man silhouetted in the tree behind them. Rosemary was prepared to run, but Victoria stood her ground. "Hello, Captain Sparrow," she said calmly.

Rosemary looked between the man in the tree and Victoria. "You know him?" she asked.

"Not very well," Victoria replied. To Jack, she called, "I take it you've come for your answer."

"That I have," Jack said, jumping down from the tree and inelegantly smashing to the ground. He leapt up, recovering instantly, and bowed drunkenly. "If my lady has decided, of course," he added. There was a touch of mocking in his tone.

"I have," she said, drawing in a deep breath. "I don't think Beckett is right in what he is doing," she began carefully. Jack grinned and looked prepared to celebrate, but Victoria raised a hand. "However," she continued, "I don't believe the pirates are in the right, either. They have committed crimes and they must be atoned for. The goal of the sword, however, is not to make others atone for their wrongs – by possessing Excalibur, both sides only hope to gain power over others. I will _not_ be party to aiding others in the pursuit of power. If you want me to bring you the sword, you must promise me that you will either return it to its original home, or that you will destroy it."

Jack stared at her in disbelief. "Destroy it?" he repeated. "Destroy the one thing that might overpower the East India Trading Company? I may be drunk, love, but I'm not _that_ drunk."

"Very well then," Victoria said aloofly, turning away. "The Company can keep the sword and use it to hunt all of you down."

"NO!" Jack shouted, then paused and grimaced. He rubbed his eyes, then began to pace nervously in all sorts of directions. "What if we use the bugger once and _then_ get rid of it?" he asked.

"No," Victoria said flatly. "You have to promise to destroy it."

"I hate wenches," Jack muttered under his breath. He hesitated a few moments longer, then held out his hand to her, swaying unsteadily. "All right, you win," he said. "I will promise to destroy the sword if you bring it to me."

Victoria smiled and took his outstretched hand. "Good," she said. "I'll do what I can for you. And," she added casually, "I'll be keeping your compass to make sure you follow through."

"Bugger," Jack said under his breath. "You know how to drive a hard bargain."

She smirked. "I learned from the best," she replied, and with that, she turned, took Rosemary's arm, and led her away.

"What the hell was that about?" Rosemary hissed once they were moving across the lawn towards the house.

Victoria smiled serenely and said simply, "It's about making certain Beckett doesn't win."

When they had passed, a swaying figure peered from the gardens, and then hurtled across the lawn as fast as he could. He disappeared onto the dark street beside the house and was soon swallowed by the night.

Not long after, a dark figure unfolded itself from the shadows behind the hedge and stepped out into the moonlight. He was followed by a smaller figure, skirts rustling with alarming noise in what had previously been total silence.

"Are you going to tell Beckett?" Catherine asked Mercer in a small voice.

"Yes," Mercer said flatly.

Catherine hung her head. "What's he going to do to Victoria when he finds out?"

"Nothing," Mercer said. "The sword's safe from her and anyone else who might attempt to reach it." His glare was dark as he watched Victoria and Rosemary enter the ballroom again. "No, he'll watch," he said softly, "And wait…"


	13. A Betrayal Exposed

A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! As a Christmas present, here's the 13th chapter! Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Victoria returned to the ballroom to find Beckett waiting for her. He attached himself to her and didn't leave her side for a single moment after that – a pity, as Victoria had hoped to spend more time with Rosemary that night. Rose had just begun to tell her about Presbery's courtship, and Victoria was most curious. When she politely asked to spend a little more time talking alone with Rose, however, Beckett flatly refused. "You'll be seeing her again soon enough," he said, his arm tightening around her waist. "I'm sure she'll be visiting to destroy – I beg your pardon, I meant _assist_ – with wedding preparations."

Victoria rolled her eyes at his sarcasm, but didn't fight him. There was little point – she knew he would win in the end. And that was all right, for the moment. He might win the battle, but the war would be hers…

She spent the rest of the night being introduced to all the guests – and this pursuit alone kept her so busy that she didn't even have an opportunity to open the plethora of presents that had been brought for her. By the time the first light of dawn began to creep into the sky and the last of their guests were finally departing, Victoria was too exhausted to do anything but let Beckett carry her upstairs and lay her in bed. She fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

Beckett watched her sleeping for a few moments, studying her face with a small frown, until Mercer entered the room.

"Where the hell have you been?" Beckett asked, his voice quiet but threatening.

Mercer shifted nervously. "I was…" he started.

"Don't even think about lying," Beckett ordered.

Mercer sighed. "I was with Catherine Whitlock," he confessed.

"As I'd thought," Beckett said, the anger a low undertone beneath his words. "Mercer, you don't seriously believe anything will come of that relationship, do you?"

"No, sir," he said quietly. "I don't."

"Then what the hell are you playing at?" Beckett demanded, turning on him. "Toying with the heart of a whore is one thing, but an aristocrat's daughter is a completely different matter!"

"I'm not toying with her!" Mercer said indignantly, his voice rising with his temper. Beckett raised a hand and nodded to the girl lying asleep in the bed behind him, and Mercer lowered his pitch. "I'm not toying with her," he repeated, more calmly now. "I… I like her."

"You love her," Beckett corrected mildly. "Any fool can see that. And she returns your affection, I think."

"She does?" Mercer seemed to brighten, then sobered again as quickly. "Maybe," he said, "But she's young and her heart is fickle. She'll change her mind someday."

"Not until she's forced to," Beckett said with a shake of his head, removing his frock coat and throwing it over a chair. "Tread with caution, my friend. You are walking in dangerous territory now."

"You won't stop me?"

"If anyone is deserving of a reward like Catherine, it is you, Mercer," Beckett said. "I am simply warning you – _be careful_. If you are caught you will be arrested at the very least and killed at the worst, and I won't protect you if that should happen."

"I wouldn't ask you to, sir."

"I know," Beckett sighed. He turned back towards the bed and paused, his eyes lingering on Victoria's limp form.

Mercer followed his gaze. "Any reason you brought her into _your_ bedroom tonight, sir?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

Beckett shrugged. "She's going to be my wife," he said. "I didn't see any reason to sleep separately."

"I hope you weren't planning anything," Mercer chuckled. "I don't believe she's up for it."

Beckett smiled slightly. "She had quite a day today." He turned and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. "I suppose she should be taken out of those clothes," he said contemplatively.

"She's not going to pleased when she wakes and realizes it was you who did it," Mercer warned.

"I know that," Beckett said irritably. "I can handle my own wife without your advice, Mercer, so kindly refrain from offering it."

"My apologies, sir." Mercer hesitated momentarily, then said, "She met with Jack Sparrow today – while she was in the gardens and you were inside."

Beckett turned on him, eyes flashing. "What?" he said sharply.

"He must have made arrangements to meet her," Mercer continued, shrugging slightly. "She and Rosemary stumbled across him in the garden. She agreed to find and turn over Excalibur to him if he would promise to destroy it."

Beckett collapsed back against the wall, feeling the wood bight into his back. All that day, she'd been so pleasant, so happy – and then tonight she still had the gall to betray him. He could never predict what the woman would do! "Bloody hell," he swore. "She doesn't seriously think he'll actually destroy it, does she?"

"Of course she does," Mercer said a bit disgustedly. "I don't believe she learned a damn thing from that incident with Orson. Except – she has Jack's compass as leverage."

Beckett smirked at that. "Well, she's learned something from _me_, at least," he chuckled. "I suppose she's agreed to return the compass once he's destroyed the sword?"

"So I gathered."

"Hmmm." Beckett moved away from the wall and paused long enough to stare piercingly at Mercer. "And what, may I ask, were _you_ doing in the gardens?"

Mercer flushed. "Nothing," he muttered.

"Would Miss Whitlock quantify it as 'nothing?'"

Mercer shifted uncomfortably – more than enough of an answer for Beckett. "Ah," he said. "I see." He turned away and moved behind a screen to finish undressing. "You ought to be careful whose virginity you take, Mercer," he advised. "Catherine's next husband is not going to be pleased when he finds her damaged."

"It didn't go that far!" Mercer snarled. "Do you think I'm _stupid_?"

"I think that you, like all men, are susceptible to passion in the moment," Beckett retorted, "And even more susceptible to the charms of pretty young women."

"I suppose you know a great deal about that," Mercer fired back, jerking his head in the direction of Victoria.

"Yes, well, you see where that's gotten me," Beckett said wryly. "Damn that wench…" He emerged from behind the screen, wigless and dressed in a lose undershirt and breeches, a robe slung loosely over his shoulders. "I'm tired," he said shortly. "And you need your rest also, I imagine. I'll see you in the morning."

"Shall I wake you at seven o'clock?"

"God, no!" Beckett said in repulsion. "Let us sleep in a bit. I've nothing planned for tomorrow; don't wake us up until we do so ourselves."

"Very well," Mercer said. "I'll come running when I hear Victoria screaming in horror."

"Har, har," Beckett said sarcastically. "Enjoy the rest of your night, Mercer."

"Oh, I shall," Mercer said airily. "Good night, my Lord."

He slipped out of the room as suddenly as he had come, leaving Beckett alone with Victoria – his fiancé. His soon-to-be wife.

If only she wasn't sleeping so soundly…

Beckett moved cautiously across the room to her side of the bed, sitting on the mattress as though it might bite him. "Tori?" he said softly, seeing if she would stir. She didn't move at all – almost as though she was dead. He laid a cool hand on her pulse, just to make certain – but no, her heart beat gently beneath his fingertips, the slow rhythm of a heart at rest. He stroked her throat tremulously, then moved his hand more boldly downwards, across her collarbone and lower. His fingers deftly found the hooks that bound her stomacher to the bodice of her dress and undid them cautiously. She might wake up at any moment… and if she did she would kill him the moment she realized what he was doing.

"You wouldn't want to sleep in your corset, would you, my dear?" Beckett murmured to her as the stomacher came loose. He pulled it free and laid it on the floor beside the bed. The gown itself was far more cumbersome to remove; there was the bodice itself, the skirt of the gown, and the many layers of petticoats. "Women," he grumbled to himself, "Wear far too much clothing." Finally down to her undergarments, he removed her corset, hoops, and stockings. He dropped all of the clothes unceremoniously onto the floor, not caring if they were wrinkled. She would never have a need to wear the dress again.

He scooped her up in his arms and settled her against in his chest, taking care that she didn't shift too much. She cuddled happily against him, burying her face in the joining of his neck and shoulder. He would never have suspected the violence with which she hated him from this tender gesture – save that she had spent over a year fleeing his pursuit. "Damn you, you whore," Beckett growled, but nonetheless he lightly kissed her forehead and watched as her eyelids fluttered briefly at the touch of his lips.

He reached up carefully and began to remove the multitude of pins from her magnificently large coiffure, casually brushing out the powder in her hair as he did so. He spent a far greater time at this task than he had anticipated and had to shift her several times to make certain he'd done a thorough job. Finally, her long golden curls were spread over his shoulder, freed from the ridiculous number of pins that had held it in place.

"If you were awake…" he said to her still form, cupping her cheek with one hand and kissing her on the mouth. Oh, yes, if she were awake, they wouldn't be sleeping…

He reluctantly laid her back down on the mattress, smoothing her hair down on the pillow. She was the perfect image of an angel – sweet, innocent, golden and stunningly beautiful. How unfortunate that it only lasted while she slept…

He pulled back from her and lay down beside her on his side of the bed, settling into his pillow and staring at her as though he didn't quite believe she was there. Slowly, his eyes began to flutter closed, until they shut and remained so at last…

* * *

Victoria awoke feeling blissfully happy the next morning. She had no idea why she felt so pleased, but she felt warm and safe and very comfortable. She snuggled closer to the source of her warmth, fingers kneading the fabric of what she briefly assumed was a blanket. 

"Good morning to you as well, love," Beckett's voice said in amusement.

Victoria frowned in confusion, and then realized very suddenly that what she held in her fingers was the cloth of a shirt. She jerked awake with startling speed. "What am I doing here?" she gasped, abruptly realizing that she was in Beckett's bedroom. She turned to stare at him – and nearly didn't recognize him without the wig. She was so used to seeing him in all his finery that his short brown hair and unclad form briefly confused her.

He chuckled at her expression. "You fell asleep in my arms," he said. "It seemed a pity to remove you from a place in which you appeared so comfortable."

"Bastard!" Victoria cried. Strangely, she didn't bother attempting to hide her shift-clad form beneath the blankets. She glanced about and noticed her clothes on the floor. "Did _you_ do that?" she asked, pointing down.

Beckett arched a brow. "I thought you deserved to be comfortable as you slept," he said. "Please, my dear, tell me if I erred."

"Do you have any idea how much scandal will be caused if your servants spread the story of my presence here?" Victoria hissed.

"Relatively little," Beckett said calmly. "We're bound to each other already; therefore, society has no reason to object."

"We're not married yet!"

"But we _will_ be," Beckett pointed out. "What do the other aristocrats care if that bond is consummated a little earlier than is typically expected?"

"Perhaps _they_ don't care, but I do," Victoria said, scuttling across the bed and away from him.

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "Why does it matter so much to you?" he demanded. "You gave yourself up to Orson easily enough."

"And we see how well _that_ came out," Victoria said bitterly. "Please, Cutler, I'd rather save it this time. It's supposed to _mean_ something when your husband makes love to you… it cements a bond that's only just been made."

"You're too bloody romantic, woman," Beckett said in frustration, sitting up and glaring at her. "All right, have it your way. Withhold all your gifts from me, if it means that much to you. But _I_ think you're doing so just to tease me, which is unusually wicked for you."

"That isn't true!" Victoria said indignantly, then paused as she considered and realized that he was most likely right. "Well, that wasn't my intention," she amended.

"Like hell it wasn't," he said derisively. "Nothing pleases you more than taunting me with your charms and then refusing to let me have any of them."

"I'll grant you that," she said with a small smile. Before the argument could progress, she bounded from bed and knelt on the floor, gathering up her masquerade dress. "I don't suppose you thought to bring my clothes into the room?" she questioned.

"Of course not," Beckett said irritably. "It was ridiculously late when I brought you here. Come back to bed."

"What?" Victoria gasped, straightening.

"You heard me," Beckett said, stretching languidly and smirking as he noticed Victoria's eyes immediately moving to study the contours of his body beneath his shirt. He lay back down and reached one arm outwards towards her, motioning for her to come closer with two fingers.

"Did we not establish only moments ago that we are not fucking until _after_ we're married?" Victoria snapped.

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. "Such coarse language, my dear," he grinned. "I didn't expect it from you." He rolled onto his side and patted the empty spot in his bed. "You needn't be so worried; I don't intend to force myself on you. When I get _that_ desperate, you'll know."

She hesitantly took a step closer, then reluctantly slipped back into bed beside him. "Then what do you want?" she asked softly.

His eyes flickered down her form, giving away what he most likely wanted more than anything at that moment. However, he merely said, "I want to tell you a story."

"A story?" Victoria repeated quizzically.

"Yes," Beckett said evenly. "There was a man I knew, you see, who had worked for quite some time to secure the hand of a very beautiful woman, whom he loved inasmuch as his capacity to love permitted him."

"And why do you feel the need to refer to yourself in third person?" Victoria asked mockingly.

"Be quiet," Beckett ordered, his voice lashing at her like a whip. She went silent, astonished at his harshness. "This man," he continued, his voice steady now, "Offered literally everything he had to give to her – his wealth, his protection, himself. There was not a luxury out of her grasp; all she needed to do was ask him if she wanted something. But still she despised him, even though she had no solid reason."

"I imagine that she did," Victoria said bitterly.

Beckett caught her chin in his hand and squeezed none-too-gently, forcing her to look at him. "She despised him," he repeated harshly, "So much so that she saw fit to fraternize with his worst enemy and make a bargain with him."

Victoria's insides turned to ice at that. "I…" she whispered, dumbstruck.

"Now why," Beckett asked frigidly, "Would she do such a thing, I wonder? Do you know what she promised her husband's enemy?"

"I think I may have an idea," she managed weakly.

"I'm sure you do," Beckett said acidly. "And can you imagine her husband's dismay when he discovered her betrayal?"

Victoria had nothing to say to that. Her eyes were wide, her body stiff, her heart pounding in terror as she waited for his next words.

"That I don't think you _can_ imagine," Beckett said tartly. "But I wonder if you can picture exactly what he did to her once he'd discovered her betrayal."

Victoria swallowed hard. "Do I really want to know?" she asked.

"I doubt it," he replied darkly, his glare so intense that she longed to look away – but he wouldn't release her. "Suffice it to say that what she suffered afterwards was far worse than any punishment ever given the most twisted criminals. Do you understand?"

Victoria blinked back tears. "Yes," she whispered.

Still he wouldn't release her. "You _belong_ to me," he said harshly. "You're _mine_ – not Orson's, not any other man's, but _mine_." He finally let go and watched as she rubbed her chin tenderly. He chuckled mirthlessly. "Property of the East India Trading Company – remember?" he said in a deathly quiet voice.

A tear slipped down her cheek. "How can I forget?" she said desolately.

He studied her a few moments longer, then climbed from bed and disappeared behind the forbidden door – the door he had expressly warned her never to enter when he had first shown her his quarters. He came out a few moments later – with Excalibur in hand.

Victoria sat up, heedless of the way in which her shift suddenly slid from her shoulder. Beckett noticed her abrupt excitement and carried the sword over to the bed, sitting down with it still held loosely in his hands. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

"Oh, yes…" Victoria breathed, laying one hand on the shining metal of the blade. "How did you find it?"

"I didn't," Beckett said shortly. "Someone else had it. The fool believed it was worthy merely because it was ancient. But you and I know better, don't we?"

The tip of the blade glinted strangely, and Victoria drew back from it nervously as Beckett casually lifted it and pointed it in her direction. "It controls all magical creatures, doesn't it?" she asked, shying away from it fearfully.

"It can control people, too," Beckett said, his gaze intense. "It can coax from even the most guarded man his deepest desires, and leave him helpless in its grip."

"I never heard that in the legend," Victoria said lightly.

Beckett smiled menacingly. "No, I imagine you didn't," he said. "It's believed to be a later addition to the sword, possibly added by Morgan le Fay. No one is certain. I had planned to test it on you, actually," he informed her, casually touching the tip of the blade to her throat, "But if the sword's power were to damage you, all my efforts to win you would have gone to waste."

"I'm grateful you're so concerned for my health and safety," Victoria said sarcastically, but there was terror in her eyes.

Beckett smirked. "I had thought to use it to bring out your latent desire for me," he said, "But where's the satisfaction in that? It would be an easy solution to my dilemma, certainly, but I'd much rather see you bend to me of your own accord."

"I won't," Victoria said stubbornly.

"Oh, you will," Beckett said certainly. "Somewhere inside that defiant exterior is a woman who craves my favor more than anything – and when you beg me for it of your own free will… when I've finally drawn from you your stubborn, frigid heart… I'll grant you that favor."

"Favor?" Victoria scoffed. "In what form, my lord?"

"Need you even ask?" he questioned, letting the tip of the sword drop to the neckline of her shift.

She drew in a sharp breath. "Don't you dare!" she hissed.

"No?" Beckett cocked an eyebrow. "You're right, it probably isn't the best idea, considering your infuriating need to pretend you actually have the willpower to resist me."

"Pretend?" Victoria cried indignantly. "You call over a year of avoiding your pursuit _pretended _willpower?"

"Over a year," Beckett said contemplatively, pressing the sword into the bare skin just above her neckline. Bravely, she didn't flinch – but her entire body was tense. "You've been Orson's lover for over a year, too, haven't you?"

"Yes…" Victoria said, her brow furrowing. "What of it?"

"You must have met me around the same time you decided to grace his unworthy person with your heart." He removed the sword from her with a flourish, setting it on the floor, and she breathed a sigh of relief

"Innocence may be a virtue, but it gains you nothing in the end," she said bitterly. "I met you the night after I met Orson."

Beckett looked up at her, surprised. "Really?" he said. "I assumed you'd known him before…"

"No," she sighed. "No, I'd merely seen him at the _Blind Beggar_ the past few times I'd visited."

"And yet you went to his bed, _without even knowing him_, the first time he introduced himself?"

"I was stupid, all right?" Victoria snapped. "I was innocent and foolish and ridiculously naïve – just as you've said."

"He must have said something very impressive to seduce you so easily," Beckett said, almost appreciatively.

"He told me he'd been admiring me from afar – from afar, because he knew I was too high above him and that he could never have me." She sighed, this time a very feminine sigh of longing.

"How very romantic," Beckett sneered. "If only he hadn't said it just so he'd get between your legs."

"You've never said anything so endearing to me," Victoria retorted, blushing hotly.

"No, but I've always been straightforward and honest about what I wanted from you, haven't I?" Beckett fired back. "Would you prefer a liar and a cheat who couches his true intent in pretty words, or an honest man who tells you nothing but the truth, no matter how dark or wicked?"

She frowned. "All I'm saying," she said stiffly, "Is that a little tenderness on your part wouldn't hurt your case."

"I have my moments." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. "I spared you the sword, didn't I?"

"Only to meet your own ends." Despite the harshness of her tone, Victoria still turned her head to allow him more room when he moved to kiss her throat. After a moment, however, she tore away from him, leaping nimbly from bed. "If you've nothing further to relate, my Lord, I believe I'll return to my quarters for a new dress," she said formally.

Beckett growled in the back of his throat, but said, "Go, then. I'll expect to see you at breakfast."

"After breakfast I'm going out."

"Where?" Beckett asked sharply. "I wasn't told of this."

"You weren't, because I only just decided," Victoria said calmly. "I'm going to visit Rosemary, and if she's not available, I'll visit Catherine."

"You just saw them last night."

"They're my friends, Cutler. I barely got to speak to them." Victoria went to his wardrobe, stole a second robe from him and shrugged it over her shoulders, then gathering up her masquerade costume in her arms. "Can't I at least have a little freedom, now that I've agreed to marry you?"

"No," Beckett said flatly. "I don't trust you – not after what you've been planning with Sparrow."

Victoria pressed her lips into a thin line but said nothing in response. "Fine," she muttered under her breath. "I'll go to my little house."

"Do that," Beckett said crossly. "Stay there if you like. Maybe something there will give you a brilliant idea for how next to betray me."

"When I betray you next, it'll be to your death!" Victoria spat,

"You'd miss me!" Beckett called as she started to turn and run from the room.

Victoria stopped and spun to face him with astonishing speed. "I would not!" she cried, outraged.

"You would, and you know it," Beckett replied, throwing back the covers and rising from bed. "Life would be far less interesting for you if you weren't being chased by a – how did you describe me in your latest diary entry? A 'ruthless, conniving, self-absorbed fop,' wasn't it?"

"Why don't you hurl yourself from a cliff, Beckett?" Victoria asked through gritted teeth

"Some other time, maybe," he said loftily. "Weren't you getting dressed?"

Victoria's glare was so vicious that any other man would have withered beneath it. Beckett merely returned it with a cool, icy gaze – and his eyes were so unnervingly calm that Victoria broke their gaze, turned, and fled the room, retreating to the safety of the guest chambers.

* * *

The next three months were veritable warfare between Beckett and Victoria. 

When Beckett really considered it, he realized that, although he had studied his fiancé for months now – over a year, in fact – he could never predict her moods or her behavior on any given day. He had attempted to establish a logical pattern to her irritability, considering what types of conversation and what words angered her most, and at what times she appeared to be more agreeable, but no matter how hard he tried he found that what set her into a rage and what merely made her smile varied depending on the day.

There was no way to predict her moods and virtually no way to avoid them. Pirates and the courting he had forced on her, he was aware, were the only two subjects that would be certain to infuriate her no matter what her attitude may have been seconds before. So he spent the next three months dancing delicately around the two topics, never mentioning their courtship, Orson, Jack Sparrow or the arrangement she had made with him.

He noted, however, that she still had the compass.

What this meant was that she had not rescinded her bargain with Sparrow – even though Beckett had made it plain he was aware of it. And every night, just before they fell asleep, he caught her staring at the locked door to his personal study, where all his careful research and his most valuable artifacts were kept.

That stare made Beckett anxious – not for the safety of the sword; the blade was quite well protected behind that mysterious door. He had safeguards at which Victoria could not even begin to guess. What he feared was that she might open the door and step into one of the most dangerous traps he had laid, and perish there.

More importantly, he feared that stare because it meant that she still had every intention of betraying him, even though she had agreed to be his wife and had made no move to change that promise since she had accepted. He would have been a fool to expect that he could ever trust her, yet somehow he had hoped at least a little that her fighting spirit might have died. In his blackened heart he knew, though, that the instant she became docile and dull, like every other woman in the aristocracy, his interest in her would sicken and die.

Better then, perhaps, to continue this little game of manipulation and duplicity. It excited him, gripped him; it was his obsession, and he abhorred and adored it all at once. That his betrothed was so ingenious and so fiery in spirit pleased him, made him burn with the need to break her defiance. She would never give in, and hence he would never be satisfied.

He accepted that knowledge and prepared to move forward, setting more safeguards around her and around his most treasured possessions, watching her every move with care as they prepared for their marriage at the end of that final third month. Nothing she did escaped his notice; she followed his movements similarly, gathering contacts and information within his house, forming her own spy network beneath his. It was rather amazing, how carefully they learned to tread around each other, how easily they built armies with which to attack the other, how quickly they learned each other's weaknesses.

They were lovers – and yet, they were mortal enemies. And no matter what they did, it would remain so until the day one of them either gave in or died.


	14. A Marriage, At Last

**A/N: This chapter contains a scene of a sexual nature at its conclusion.**

One month passed in a blur, then two, then three. Victoria was never entirely sure where they went – only that they passed her by so quickly that she barely remembered anything that occurred in them.

She remembered being fitted for her wedding dress (how her mother had protested! She'd saved her wedding dress for Victoria, but Beckett promised to pay for a newer, more fashionable dress – in more polite terms, of course.) She remembered choosing the filmy fabrics for it – how beautiful it was to be! She had designed it specifically so that it would bare her shoulders – scandalous, but tantalizing; and nothing delighted her more than tantalizing her soon-to-be-husband.

The dress was to be light blue, decorated with silver filigree and delicate pearls – her favorite stone. The skirt was to be of the same fabric, pulled to the side by slender silver ribbons to reveal pearl-dripped petticoats. Her slippers were elaborately embroidered to match the ensemble with silver thread and ribbons, and the stomacher, too, was laced into the front of the dress with beautiful silver ribbon.

There was a veil, too, of sheer fabric with elegant designs made of still more pearls, which sailed to the ground and trailed behind her when she wore the dress. Overtop this delicate ensemble, to protect it from the elements and her husband's eyes on the way to the church was a cloak of the lightest pink, with a huge hood to make room for her coiffure as well as her veil and a long, trailing train to hide the back of the dress. The front laced up with white ribbon and fitted so perfectly over the dress that it appeared to be a part of the dress itself.

When Beckett had politely asked to view her in the dress when it had arrived from the tailor shop, Victoria had flatly refused. "It's bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding," she informed him.

When he'd turned to Mercer for support, Mercer had merely chuckled. "Don't look at me," he said. "I'm on her side."

Beckett spent the rest of that day glaring venomously at both of them and refusing to speak to either of them. He continued this silent treatment until Victoria kissed him goodnight in repentance. It was amazing how quickly he relented upon receiving such a sign of favor.

And there were other memories, too – preparing a sample of the invitations for the calligrapher to send out; lying in bed with Beckett while they prepared the (extremely lengthy) guest list before they went to sleep; sneaking a glimpse of Beckett as he tried on his newly fitted wedding clothes (dark, royal blue with elaborate silver filigree and sapphires on the buttons – bloody hell, the man was rich!); asking Rosemary and Cat to be her bridesmaids; listening to Beckett as he argued with himself over who to choose as groomsmen; and so many other less important details that became blurred in the end…

She had wondered often about Beckett's family and when he might bring them into the arrangements, but he never mentioned them. Finally unable to wait any longer, she'd asked him about them as they'd drifted off to sleep one night.

"Cutler?"

"Mmm?"

"What about your parents and your siblings?"

A pause. Then, "What about them?"

"Well, don't you think they should be present at your wedding?"

He'd rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, brow furrowed as he studied her in the dark. "I don't have any siblings," he said shortly. "My mother is dead, and… well… my father and I aren't on speaking terms."

"I'm… sorry." She'd chewed her lip awkwardly, feeling ridiculously stupid for bringing up so sensitive a subject. "I didn't mean -"

"It was a perfectly legitimate question; don't fret over it. Just… don't ask about them anymore."

And that had ended it. They'd fallen asleep and let it slip into the blur of forgotten memories, lost in the midst of their wedding preparations.

So many moments, and they'd flown by her too fast for her to catch them all and cling to them…

She'd always imagined her wedding as a time of romance and happiness, but although the preparations were manifold and they were constantly working to ready themselves for it, it seemed more like a business arrangement than a fairy-tale marriage. Victoria supposed this wasn't entirely inaccurate; she learned from her small but useful spy network that her father had relented and opted to give Beckett her dowry anyway, along with she herself. They had met and drawn up the terms of the agreement.

And now, everything was in place for the most elaborate wedding London had ever seen…

* * *

It was a Wednesday morning when Victoria awoke and realized it was her wedding day.

"Why does everything happen on Wednesdays?" she groaned to herself, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow.

"I only wish I knew," Beckett's voice, still groggy from sleep, replied. "Someday I'll find the answer to that. In the meantime, however, I would suggest you attempt to skip Wednesday altogether. It seems to be a most unfortunate day for you."

"Mmmmfff." Victoria settled into the pillow and tried to go back to sleep, not yet ready to rise.

Beckett seemed to realize what she was attempting to do. "Oh, no you don't," he said, sitting up and grabbing her around the waist. "We're getting married today, and _you_ are not going to sleep through it!"

"No!" Victoria cried as Beckett pulled her into a sitting position. "Dear God, Cutler, can't you let a woman sleep in peace?"

"And miss her wedding because of it? I think not."

"At least a little longer," she pleaded. "God knows I won't be sleeping tonight."

Beckett's entire body tensed at that. "True enough," he said easily, but she could tell the tone was feigned.

"Excited, are you?" she asked dryly.

His hand caressed her hip, too seductively. "You have no idea," he breathed in her ear. So saying, he then forcefully pushed her out of bed and watched as she tumbled very ungracefully onto the floor.

"Bastard!" Victoria cried, floundering in a most ungainly manner on the floor.

"Lovely, my dear," he laughed, leaning over the edge of the bed to watch as Victoria attempted to disentangle herself from the sheets, her shift, and her messy blonde hair, which hung in ridiculously disheveled curls around and in her face. "I must say, you're at your most attractive when you're fresh from bed."

"Why don't you do me an enormous favor and go impale yourself on Excalibur, Cutler?" she said crossly.

"Right before I'm to get married? I don't think so, my little wife."

Victoria glared indignantly up at him through the mess of her hair. "'Little wife'?" she repeated indignantly. "I haven't married you yet, Cutler Beckett – and for all you know I may not, ever!"

His eyes narrowed at this threat, all mirth evaporating from his face as though it had never existed there. "If you've devised some sort of plan to escape this arrangement, it won't work," he warned. "Especially if it involves your miserable little pirate friends."

"You can't have that many safeguards on the wedding," Victoria said skeptically.

"Oh, but I do." So saying, Beckett raised a hand and seemingly withdrew Excalibur from midair. Victoria gasped in amazement at its miraculous appearance.

"How did you do that?" she exclaimed.

He smirked. "Didn't realize your husband was so powerful, did you?" he grinned. "Watch." He lived the sword in the air, pointing it directly upwards, and spoke a single word in a language Victoria did not understand: "_Gædrian!_"

The word seemed to resound through the spacious room, bouncing off the walls and echoing repeatedly in her ears. The whole room darkened, as though black clouds had very suddenly obscured the sun. Victoria looked about the room, eyes wide with fear. "What's happening?" she whispered in a small, frightened voice.

He didn't answer. Instead, he took Excalibur and pointed it directly at her again. This time, he said nothing in the strange language he had used before, but she knew something had happened, because her eyes started to burn. Tears welled up and overflowed, spilling down her cheeks in a vain attempt to stop the burning. "Ouch!" she exclaimed, rubbing at her eyes. "What have you done to me?"

Beckett nodded towards the window. "See for yourself," he advised.

She stood shakily and went to the window, leaning on the sill as she looked outside. At first, she noticed nothing different. Then, upon closer examination, she realized that the ground outside was literally crawling – all of it.

"Stray sod," Beckett explained in a bored tone of voice. "And if you look at the gate, you'll notice a great many very odd looking frogs. Don't even try looking at the flowers in front of the house; they're entirely smothered with pixies and the like."

He was right; there were what seemed like thousands of peculiar frogs sitting and staring unblinkingly at passerby on the street. "Zounds," Victoria murmured, eyes wide and hands clenching on the sill. "What are those frog things?"

"Some type of goblin, I think. If you'd been up before dawn you would have seen the Asrai."

"Asrai?"

"Very pretty and very tiny female faeries," he explained. "They melt into little puddles if sunlight touches them or if a human captures them, so don't try and keep one as a pet."

"I wouldn't do something like that!" Victoria said indignantly. She watched as one piece of stray sod wandered onto the path. "It has a tiny human form!" she said in surprise, pointing.

"Yes, beneath all the grass, it does," Beckett said. "And Lieutenant Trefry ought to watch his step or – oh. Too late."

Victoria flinched as Trefry put a foot down on the stray sod. "That poor thing…" she said with a grimace.

"I wouldn't pity it so much, if I were you. Watch Trefry."

She realized rather abruptly that Trefry was stumbling about in dazed confusion, wandering with a lost look on his face back out the gate. "I take it that when you step on a stray sod, it disorients you," she said dryly as she watched him wander directly in front of a coach that barely swerved out of the way in time.

"Brilliant deduction. You're smarter than this morning's display on the floor made you appear."

Victoria turned on him with a furious glare. "I was half-awake," she said angrily. "I don't think clearly in the morning. Most people don't, for that matter."

"You'll forgive me for taking advantage of you in your weaker moments, my Lady," Beckett said with a characteristic smirk. "They are few and far between, and hence I revel in them when I find you at a loss."

"Ass," Victoria said coolly, turning to look back out the window. "So you've summoned all these faeries to guard the house – and, I presume, me and you – so that everything will go as planned. And how, may I ask, do you intend to hide thousands of bizarrely distorted frogs, bright green pixies, and clumps of moving grass?"

Beckett grinned. "You haven't noticed, have you?" he said.

She blinked in confusion. "Haven't noticed what?"

He pointed at the pathway leading to his door, where a steady stream of Company men were walking back and forth. They didn't seem the least bit disturbed by the fat and warty goblins leering at them as they marched past, nor did they seem to notice the pixies that were flying into their faces. "Can't… can't they see them?" she questioned uncertainly.

"No, my dear, they cannot." Beckett wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, lightly kissing her just beneath her ear. "I gave you the Sight a few moments ago – so that you could see them, too."

"A special Sight is required to see faeries?"

"Of course. How else do you think they hide their existence from mortals?" He released her, then bent and swept her from the ground. She cried out, startled, and he smirked at her once again. "So now you know – you're very well protected, my dear," he said, a dark threat beneath the seemingly comforting words. "Don't you think you ought to be preparing?"

"I'll start getting ready when you put me down," she said crossly.

"As you wish." With that, Beckett released her without warning. If her arms hadn't been firmly wrapped around his neck, she would have fallen to the floor with a most ungainly thud.

"Bastard!" she exclaimed as she righted herself, having slipped a bit when he dropped her. "How dare you -!"

Before she could say all that she'd wanted to, her maid, Mary, opened the door and shuffled in. "You should be getting ready, milady," she grumbled with a small curtsy.

"Yes, you should," Beckett said, nobly arching a brow as she unlocked her arms from around his neck. He lightly shoved her on the back. "Go. Shoo."

At that she turned to him and planted her feet squarely on the floor. "Don't 'shoo' me!" she snapped. "I'm _not_ your little pet that you can send off whenever you wish to!"

Despite her anger, she noticed Beckett was attempting not to burst out laughing. "Whatever you say, milady," he said mockingly.

She turned on him with a huff and stormed out past Mary, nose in the air. She was nearly out of his office when he leaned out his bedroom door and called out the door, "Don't forget to wear the pearls I gave you… my pet!"

Almost without thinking, she grabbed an inkpot from his desk and turned so quickly that Mercer, who had just entered the room, was unable to catch her arm as she hurled the object at Beckett. Fortunately for Beckett (and much to Victoria's disappointment), he managed to slam the door in time. The vessel shattered on the door and spattered jet-black ink all over the plain white paint, leaving a huge and hideous stain. Victoria beamed in satisfaction and turned to leave.

Mercer followed her out with a glower. "He's going to kill you for that, you know," he warned.

Victoria ignored him, happily humming a light-hearted tune. Mercer growled in the back of his throat and said, "You look awfully pleased with yourself despite having missed."

"Oh, seeing Beckett's face covered in black ink certainly would have made my day," Victoria said airily, "But one can't have everything, I suppose…"

Mercer rolled his eyes. "You really are going to make our lives hell, aren't you?" he said resignedly.

Victoria smiled brilliantly at him before disappearing into the guest chamber suite that had originally been hers.

Mercer clenched his teeth and shook his head at the closed door. "Bloody hell," he mumbled, "And I was just starting to like her, too…"

* * *

It literally took Victoria five hours to dress herself completely, hair, cosmetics, and forcing the elegant pink cloak into place included. Her corset had started out ridiculously tight, but Victoria had forced Mary to loosen it – as entertaining as fainting at the altar might have been, Victoria wasn't keen on the notion of suffocating before her entire family and friends. Granted, suffocation would have been a way to escape the heinous marriage stretching bleakly before her, but she was fairly certain Beckett wasn't worth the trouble of such a slow, painful death. Besides, he'd probably just tear the bodice of her dress open and cut off her stays, thereby simultaneously saving her life and humiliating her in front of virtually every single aristocrat in London.

Well into hour four, her mother appeared in the room, wearing her finest dress and sporting an enormous coiffure, larger than the most gigantic wig Victoria had ever seen. "God's wounds, mother!" Victoria exclaimed when she saw her. "When did you grow all that hair?"

"It's brushed over a form, dear," her mother said breathlessly, beginning to flutter a bit nervously about the room. "And you shouldn't swear like that – it's not ladylike, and you're truly a lady now."

"Not yet," Victoria said irritably as Mary fixed another stunning silver pin in her hair. "Mary, have you seen my pearls?"

"They're in the box on your left," Mary answered calmly, finally lifting the veil and beginning to pin it into place. "Don't move so much; you'll ruin your hair."

Victoria forced herself to hold still. "Mother, what in God's name are you looking for?" she asked as she watched her mother bustle about the room.

"Just seeing if there's anything important you've forgotten," Mrs. Thorne replied. "You haven't even said a proper 'hello' to me yet, you ungrateful wretch!"

Victoria flushed, feeling embarrassed for behaving so selfishly. "Mary, stop a minute, will you?" she requested, rising from her chair and hurrying over to her mother. She ran up behind her and embraced the woman tightly, leaning her head against her mother's back. She and Mrs. Thorne had never been particularly close – a governess had always watched over Victoria – but they still cared about each other in a deeply familial way. "I miss you," she said quietly, realizing how true it was.

Mrs. Thorne sighed. "I miss you too, dear," she said sadly. "But I suppose it's best I've had this time to orient myself to your disappearance from the house."

Victoria released her mother and stepped back as Mrs. Thorne turned to face her. "And anyway, I'm happy that you're married off so – dear God!" Mrs. Thorne pressed a hand to her chest.

Victoria frowned, perplexed. "What?" she asked, looking down at her dress.

"Your shoulders are completely bare!" her mother exclaimed.

Victoria grinned. "Ah, yes… that," she said, an impish gleam in her eye.

"Victoria Trilby Thorne, you are not wearing so scandalous a gown to your wedding!" Mrs. Thorne cried.

Victoria shrugged slightly, baring her shoulders even more. "I am," she said evenly. "And I really don't think Cutler will mind."

"Lord Beckett will most certainly mind!" Mrs. Thorne said furiously. "He will never accept you appearing like a harlot!

"I don't look like a harlot!" Victoria said indignantly.

"You do!" Mrs. Thorne retorted. "And Lord Beckett will not approve!"

"What won't I approve of?"

Victoria shrieked and ducked behind her mother. "Cutler, what are you doing in here?" she demanded.

He raised an eyebrow. "I was coming to retrieve my bride," he said. "Assuming, of course, that you're ready."

"I'm not," she said, "So get out!"

"Lord Beckett, she's out of her mind!" Mrs. Thorne interjected. "She can't wear this dress!"

Beckett's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Why ever not?" he asked.

"Well, look at it!" Mrs. Thorne huffed, trying to shove Victoria in front of her.

"No!" Victoria cried stubbornly, ducking behind her mother again. "He can't see it yet!"

"Victoria Trilby Beckett," Beckett said sharply. "I believe it's time we decided to ignore old superstitions. Let me see the dress."

"It's not because of a superstition that I don't want you to see the dress," Victoria growled. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

Mercer, who was standing behind Beckett, chuckled at that. "I don't blame you for that," he said. "It's… quite a dress."

"Come on, Tori; let's see it," Beckett ordered.

Victoria sighed, glared at her mother, and stepped out from behind her.

Beckett inhaled sharply as he took her in, eyes traveling down her still-bare throat to her exposed shoulders, the elegant edge of the bodice, the delicate beading and filmy ribbons. "Good God," he breathed.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Mrs. Thorne sighed.

"You look stunning," Beckett said to Victoria, as though he hadn't heard Mrs. Thorne at all.

Mrs. Thorne looked astonished. "What?" she cried. "You don't think it's… too scandalous?"

Beckett's eyes moved immediately to Victoria's naked shoulders, and he smiled. "Oh, I'm sure it's too scandalous," he said, "But we'll ignore the standards of decency for today and permit her to wear it." His eyes wandered over her again. "You're not ready, you said?"

"Not quite," Victoria mumbled, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. "The veil needs to be pinned into place, and I have a special cloak for it, too…"

"No wonder it was so bloody expensive," Beckett muttered. "Very well. I'll be waiting for you in the parlor."

Victoria watched him as he turned and walked out, occasionally shooting glances over his shoulder at her. She noticed a trail of about ten small and bizarre creatures leaping and cackling after him as he walked. They paused in the doorway as Mercer made to shut it and simultaneously contorted their already hideous features into even more grotesque faces. Victoria drew back in surprise and watched as they bounded out of the door's way just in time, listening to them cackle all the way down the hall.

"Zounds," she mumbled, "Today is going to be the strangest day of my life…"

* * *

When she was finally dressed and ready to depart, Victoria was led downstairs by her anxious mother and met at the base of the stairs by her father, who was wearing his finest coat of red and dark trousers. Even Mercer, she realized, had dressed for the occasion; he was wearing what seemed to be a brand new, black outfit with a touch of gold at the edges of the frock coat's cuffs. He didn't appear particularly comfortable in it as he led her to her family carriage and held the door for her. "You look marvelous, Mercer," she whispered to him as she got in.

"I'd better, for how damn uncomfortable this outfit is," he growled back. "I hope you're happy." With that, he shut the door and marched to Beckett's carriage.

"Who's riding with Cutler?" Victoria asked curiously.

"No one besides that Mercer fellow," Byron answered, straightening his frock coat. "You look lovely, sister."

"Thank you," Victoria said politely. She was never entirely sure how to act around her eldest brother. "I take it Cat and Rose are meeting us at the church."

"They are indeed," Charles cut in. "And may I also say that you look lovely."

"Thank you, Charles," Victoria said, a bit exasperatedly. She abruptly realized that something was missing. "Where's Edmond?" she asked.

She was greeted by total silence. Finally, Benedict Thorne cleared his throat and said, "He's not coming, my dear."

"Oh," Victoria said softly, looking down at the floor of the carriage. "Protesting, is he?"

"I'm afraid so. He was always uncommonly attached you to, Tori; you know that," her father said, in an attempt to comfort her. "He just… couldn't accept that he was losing you."

"He couldn't accept that I was marrying Beckett," Victoria corrected calmly. "You don't have to lie to me, father."

An extremely awkward silence fell over the carriage at that. "Victoria," Benedict said, starting the conversation again with great caution, "Now is probably not the best time to bring this up, but… ah… you've been gone from us so long, and it's been quite awhile since we've seen you by yourself, you know…"

"Yes?" Victoria said stiffly, sitting up straight and looking out the window as though the answers to all her questions about life were passing by along with the scenery.

Benedict chewed his lip nervously as he watched her. "Look, Victoria, we know you've been alone with Lord Beckett for quite some time," he said, dancing around the question he wished to ask, "And it's been apparent from the beginning that you were to marry him… and, of course, even with Mercer's presence, we can't help but wonder if… ah… well, if…"

"He hasn't made love to me, father," Victoria said flatly.

She could almost hear the sigh of relief escaping from each family member. "Excellent," Benedict said. "Really, excellent. Not that it would have made much of a difference, of course, but these matters are very delicate. Sometimes, especially when wealthy men make advances on much poorer girls, they propose marriage, lie with the girls long before the wedding, then claim they were already damaged after the wedding night and send them back in shame…"

Victoria turned back to her parents with a blank look on her face. "I could see Cutler doing that, actually," she said. "And in my case, he would have every right."

"What?" her mother said sharply.

"You might as well know," Victoria continued, "As long as I'm getting married. I had a lover, a pirate, who I visited for nigh a year before Beckett started courting me. How you didn't realize, I'll never know; Edmond knew something was happening, and so did my maid, but none of you ever noticed."

"Victoria!" Benedict said sharply.

"Dear God, does Beckett know?" Mrs. Thorne asked faintly.

"He's known from the beginning," Victoria said calmly. "The night he rescued me, I was meeting my lover in London's slums. I can only assume he followed me there and sent Mercer to follow me. I was attacked, and Mercer saved me, and you know the rest of the story."

"Bloody hell," Benedict growled, eyes narrowed into angry slits. "How could you do such a thing?"

Victoria shrugged. "I felt constrained and unhappy," she admitted. "And he wooed me with the most romantic words, making me believe things that were never true to begin with… It doesn't matter now, anyway," she said abruptly, looking out the window again. "Beckett's worked far too hard to win me to send me home; and anyway, the pirate's been locked away somewhere where I can't reach him. And, truth be told, I don't miss him much." The carriage stopped abruptly. "Ah, here we are," Victoria said brightly. She turned back to her family. "Shall we, then?"

Her brothers and her parents stared at her, eyes wide and faces pale. "If he returns you because you've been damaged…" Benedict said, his voice shaking with anger.

"If he means to do that, I promise you I won't be returning to the house," Victoria said. "I'll simply disappear. Don't worry."

Before they could say anything else, Mercer swung open the door and helped Victoria out. He watched as her family passed by, staring at her as though she were some sort of terrifying apparition. When they had moved far enough towards the church, Mercer turned to her with one eyebrow raised. "They look like they've seen a ghost," he said. "What'd you do to them?"

"I told them about Orson," Victoria said with a shrug.

"Ah," Mercer said. "What incredible timing you have, Lady Beckett."

Victoria straightened the hood of her specially designed cloak. "I have my reasons for choosing this moment," she said evenly. At exactly that instant, she spotted Cat and Rosemary. "Cat! Rose!" she shouted, running over to them.

Cat squealed and tackled her in a tight hug. Rosemary was less forthcoming, embracing her lightly and pulling back quickly. "Look, there aren't any guards," Rosemary noted. "If I tripped Mercer and you started running right now, you might still be able to make an escape."

Victoria laughed. "Only in my dreams," she said. She grew sober. "Don't be surprised if my family looks nervous or angry through the entire ceremony," she warned. "I just told them about Orson."

"You told them?" Cat cried. "Dear God, Tori! Why?"

"Because if we're not on speaking terms and they're not coming to visit me, Beckett can't involve them in his machinations, now can he?" Victoria turned towards the church. "I have to protect them somehow."

"Are you sure this is the best way to do it?" Rosemary asked incredulously.

"No," Victoria admitted, "But I didn't know what else to do on such short notice. Anyway, it's over now."

"What is?" Beckett asked as he approached her and stopped at her side.

"Our extremely lengthy courtship," Victoria said with an aristocratic smile. She took Beckett's extended arm. "Shall we, my Lord?"

"Of course." He turned without greeting either Cat or Rosemary and led Victoria inside the church.

Rosemary shook her head in disbelief. "God's wounds," she muttered, "Those two are going to manipulate the hell out of each other. I pity them both."

Cat didn't seem to hear. "Go inside," she said absently. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Why? Where are you -?" Rosemary started to ask, but Cat was already hurrying off. Rosemary shrugged and ran into the church, not noticing that Cat was heading for Mercer.

Mercer didn't notice, either, until Cat called, "David!"

He looked up from his post by the carriages. "Cat!" he exclaimed, a smile crossing his scarred face. He quickly quashed the grin and stiffened in an attempt to appear more formal. "Miss Whitlock," he corrected himself. "What can I do for you?"

She looked hurt. "David -!" she started, but he frowned and jerked his head in the direction of the carriages, where she noticed the coaches' drivers were standing in a cluster, talking amongst themselves. "Oh," she said in a low voice. "I see." She held out a piece of paper, which Mercer took from her and placed in his pocket. "I have a job I'd like you to do," she said formally. "I couldn't think of anyone else better for it. What with it being Beckett and Victoria's wedding night, I assumed you were off duty."

"I am," Mercer said, biting back a small grin.

"Good," Cat said, smirking a little. "That paper has the instructions for the job written on it. Don't lose it. I'll expect to hear about your progress by eleven o'clock tonight."

"It shall be done, Miss Whitlock," Mercer said with a bow. "Enjoy the wedding festivities."

"I'll do my best," she said, wrinkling her nose a little. She lowered her voice and added, "You look amazing, by the way. Black is a good color for you." She glanced behind him at the drivers, but they weren't paying any attention to the duo at all. She leaned forward as quickly as she could and kissed Mercer, tearing away and running up the steps with flaming cheeks and closing the church doors firmly behind her.

Mercer stared after her in shock, not entirely sure that he hadn't just imagined the entire encounter. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the paper. He unfolded it and read, in very neat handwriting:

_Meet me at Victoria's little house in the gardens tonight at 11. I have something for you._

Mercer folded the paper again and slid it back in his pocket. He appeared in every manner to forget about it; but even though he stood stiffly and vigilantly at his post just outside the church, his hand was always in his pocket, fingering the note.

* * *

Despite the presence of every single important aristocrat ever to visit London, the wedding was relatively simple and brief. Victoria removed her coat and entered the chapel in her very scandalous wedding dress, which received a multitude of looks and whispers. No look, however, pleased her more than Beckett's; his eyes kept lingering on the exposed skin of her shoulders, and the long strand of pearls she'd draped around her neck.

She noticed that he kept a firm grip on her hand through the entire ceremony. Other young women would comment to her later about how sweet it was, but she knew that he clutched her fingers so tightly in his because he was deathly afraid that she was going to turn and run at the first opportunity.

But she didn't.

She looked him steadily in the eyes as she made her vows, refusing even to blink – not out of the desire to comfort him; because she had to convince him that she was sincere, or else she would live under constant scrutiny. She couldn't let that happen if she was still to carry out her promise to Jack – and if Jack was still to carry out his promise to her. Chances were, of course, that she would always be carefully watched – but if Beckett trusted her even a little, there would be a moment where he would slip and let her go unattended.

And when that moment came, she fully intended to seize it.

* * *

The enormous celebration at Beckett's home lasted well past midnight – and with good reason. Beckett had prepared the most elaborate entertainments imaginable for his wedding – everything from a ball to a play to a magnificent display of fireworks after nightfall. There were card games and tea tables and so much food that Victoria was fairly certain Beckett had emptied the larders of the entire countryside. Wine flowed freely and many guests drank quite liberally, all of them being hoisted from the house when they grew too rowdy by cackling Spriggans (the grotesque little faeries that had been following at Beckett's feet earlier in the day).

Beckett and Victoria spent most of the evening separated from one another, greeting and speaking with guests of the same sex and doing their best to make certain they'd said hello to everyone before they were all drunk. Neither Victoria nor Beckett drank, although Victoria wanted to; she was so tense, she felt as though a bit of wine in her system might help mellow her screaming nerves. However, along with nerves, the wine would mellow her modesty, and she didn't feel that acting like a whore on her first night with Beckett was entirely the best recourse.

It didn't help that women at every turn made some sort of jest in regards to her virginity (or her soon-to-be lack thereof… if only they knew….) Even women she barely knew laughingly remarked on Beckett's rumored skills in the bedroom and wished her the best when she was bedded that night. Victoria didn't think she'd blushed so much in her entire life.

It would have been infinitely worse if Beckett had been with her, but he was suffering his own difficulties with guests. The men, if anything, were worse than the women in their comments, lewdly remarking on the various things they'd wanted to do with Victoria when they'd seen her in her wedding dress that day and offering suggestions for what Beckett should do to her. Beckett, however, was much better at ignoring them than Victoria, and for the most part, when anyone made a comment he disapproved of, he sent the Spriggans to toss them onto the stray sod in the yard so they'd wander disoriented until the spell wore off.

In all the hubbub, neither Beckett nor Victoria noticed Cat and Mercer's disappearance just before eleven o'clock. In fact, no one noticed – not even the faeries meant to be on guard.

Victoria, however, noticed the faeries – particularly the Asrai, who were flitting outside the windows just above the ponds and puddles and fountains in the garden. They were exquisite, miniature replicas of beautiful, full-grown nude women, and they sailed through the air as though it was merely water in a lake. She also watched as the Spriggans spread sporadically throughout the yard inflated themselves into incredible sizes and shapes, then watched as they deflated again, laughing wickedly. She spotted Will o' the Wisps leading an unwary and very drunk soldier towards a pond and meant to do something about it, but was stopped on her way out when someone caught her arm and jerked her into an empty parlor.

"What are -? Oh, Cutler!" She gasped in surprise when she realized it was Beckett who had captured her.

"Going somewhere?" he inquired pleasantly.

Victoria knew there was nothing remotely pleasant about the question. "One of your soldiers is being led into a pond by a Will o' the Wisp," she said, pointing towards the pond to make her point – not that it mattered, as Beckett couldn't see it. "Somebody should help him before he drowns."

"Let him drown," Beckett said dismissively. "He's just a soldier. I have easily ten thousand more."

"Cutler!" Victoria said sharply.

Beckett sighed. "Fine," he said, and he snapped his fingers. Several Asrai appeared instantly, flitting about near his hand. He didn't say a word, but somehow Victoria was certain he was communicating with them. The Asrai disappeared as quickly as they had come. "They'll rescue him," he said. "They like you. They appreciate your generosity of heart."

"They must not like you much, then," Victoria said bitingly.

"They feel about me as a captive feels about their captor," he said, "So I imagine you can sympathize."

"I do," Victoria said, "Deeply."

She made to leave, but Beckett caught her wrist and jerked her back, pulling her uncomfortably close. "The guests will be gone soon," he murmured, raising one hand and stroking her cheek with his fingers.

"There's still a great many here," Victoria said, her heart beginning to pound.

"They'll leave soon enough." His hand moved lower, caressing her throat. "Nobody wants to impose on a couple's wedding night."

Victoria swallowed hard. "They don't seem particularly anxious to leave, if you ask me," she insisted.

"Hmm," Beckett responded absently; his fingers were now lightly running across her naked shoulder, raising goose bumps on her skin. "Perhaps you're right," he said in a low voice. "In which case… as long as we're not missed…" He very suddenly backed her into the wall and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her despite her unintelligible cries. Finally, she managed to wrench her head from his grasp.

"Cutler!" she said sharply. "For God's sake, have a little patience!"

"Patience?" he repeated with a mirthless laugh. "That's hilarious, coming from a woman who has denied me my rights as her husband for nearly two years."

"May I remind you that you weren't my husband for all of those two years?" Victoria pointed out.

"May I remind you that _you_ are not a virgin?" Beckett retorted.

"What of it? I'm not prepared to give myself to you, and you can't force me," Victoria said with incredible bravado. She knew, of course, that Beckett was more than capable of doing exactly that, physically; she was counting on whatever small amount of morals he retained to save her.

He held her gaze with frustrated eyes for a few moments, but finally he stepped back. "No," he said, his voice rough. "No, I can't. That isn't how I want you."

Victoria inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, but outwardly remained tense. She waited for him to say something else.

Finally, he turned away from her and said softly, "I'm sorry. Go back to your friends and enjoy yourself."

Victoria was rather astonished by his apology. She hesitated, then caught his left hand in both of hers and lifted it to her lips, planting a small and grateful kiss on his fingers before fleeing the room and rushing into the midst of some excitedly chattering young ladies.

Beckett's eyes followed her as she began making rounds again, her deeply flushed face the only indication that something had almost happened. Fortunately, nobody seemed to notice the telltale sign, nor did they notice when Beckett issued from the same room Victoria had rushed from only moments before. He headed off in the direction of the men's card game, planning to watch. Maybe watching something complex would distract him from the dangerous places to which his mind was wandering…

* * *

It was past one in the morning when the last guest, a very drunk marquis, was finally and forcefully removed from the premises by the remaining sober guards of the house. Beckett was exhausted and didn't even want to think about either Victoria or the fact that it was his wedding night. After the earlier incident between them, he was fairly certain that all he would be doing that night was sleeping.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, wandered a bit dazedly down the hall, finally found the door to his suite of rooms and entered, stripping off his frock coat as he moved through the parlor and the office and entered the bedroom – so exhausted that he didn't even pay attention to the enormous black stain on the doorway. He threw his frock coat onto a chair and was unbuttoning his waistcoat when he heard someone chuckle.

"You shouldn't treat your wedding suit like that, you know," Victoria said from the bed.

He turned to her with such speed that he nearly lost his balance. "What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

She slid from under the covers of the bed, standing and starting to walk over to him. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her. "Nice frock coat," he finally managed – because, indeed, that was all she appeared to be wearing, and only approximately two-thirds of the buttons were actually closed. "Did you borrow that from me?"

"It's my favorite of yours," Victoria said, pausing to admire the crimson and gold coat in the mirror. "I thought about wearing the entire outfit, but it's a touch hot in here for that, isn't it?"

"A little," Beckett said, removing his wig carefully so he wouldn't have to tear his eyes away from her. "For it being nearly winter…"

"Naturally." Victoria turned back to him and began to fidget a bit apprehensively with one of the buttons. Beckett watched her for a few moments, then laughed.

"Nervous, are you?" he questioned, dropping into a chair and removing his boots.

"A little," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. He raised an eyebrow, and she relented. "A lot," she confessed.

"Better." He stood and took a step towards her. "Well, Lady Beckett, I hate to inform you, but taking other people's clothing qualifies as stealing, and I may have to have you arrested for it."

"Oh, dear," Victoria said in mock fear. "But that wasn't my intent at all!"

"I'm disinclined to believe that, I'm afraid."

"Surely there must be something I could do to make it up to you."

He arched a brow. "You could always return the coat."

"Of course! How silly of me." His breath caught in his throat as she lifted her hands to the first closed button and began to undo it. She unbuttoned the coat entirely, then let it slide off her shoulders ever so slowly. "Here," she said quietly, holding it out him and folding one arm protectively across her chest.

He smiled and took it from her, tossing it onto the chair with the other coat.

"You shouldn't do that with your coats, you know," she said, now crossing both arms over her chest. "It's bit chillier in here than I had previously thought."

He laughed, then held out his arm to her. "Come here," he said softly.

She hesitated, then almost ran to him, snuggling against his chest and burying her face in his shoulder. Her fingers caught and clutched at his shirt. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's been a long time since I've done this…"

"I'm glad to hear that, actually." He wrapped his arms around her waist and caught her lips with his when she looked up. "Tori…" he whispered when she pulled back. He stepped away from her and pulled his undershirt over his head, then moved to unlace his breeches. Victoria flushed and looked away, crossing her arms over her chest again and rubbing her arms in the cold air.

He watched her in amusement and finally said, "You could get in bed, if you wanted. I imagine the blankets will keep you warmer than your arms will."

"I would think so," she said, sounding relieved. She turned and rushed across the room, rather quickly. Beckett watched her with a small smile on his face as she dived beneath the covers, tugging them up to her neck and hiding her body from view.

He shook his head as he stripped off his breeches and tossed them on the growing pile of clothes. "Did you hide like that with Orson?" he asked, sliding into bed next to her.

"Umm… yes," she admitted, squirming in embarrassment beneath the blankets. "At least, the first few times I did. I mean, we _were_ total strangers the first time…"

"All the more reason not to have let him have you," Beckett pointed out. He instantly regretted it when he saw the angry look in her eyes. "Never mind," he said hurriedly, waving a hand. "It's in the past."

He cautiously laid a hand on the flat of her stomach, moving it away when she jerked in surprise. He studied her carefully and waited until she had relaxed again, and then laying it back again when he was certain she was receptive. He left it there for a moment, then slowly moved upwards, caressing her stomach, then higher. She inhaled sharply as his hand cupped her breast, but her eyes fluttered closed in pleasure and she made no attempts to protest. He observed her clinically for a few moments, then lowered his head and kissed her again, coaxing her lips to part and admit his tongue. She moaned a little at the intimate contact, and then giggled when she felt him smirking against her mouth.

"You smirk at everything, don't you?" she whispered when he pulled back.

"Oh, yes," he purred. "Yes, I do…"

And then he promptly smirked again when he ran his hand back down her stomach and lower, between her legs.

He moved to kiss her throat and grinned at the cries he elicited from her with his fingers – first one, then two. "Oh, God…" Victoria swore as he slid the second finger inside her, her hands clenching at the sheets.

"God, my love, is not the one making you feel this way," Beckett breathed.

"Oh, Cutler…" she groaned.

"Much better," he chuckled, planting a kiss on her stomach. He pulled his hand away from her, and her eyes flew open in disappointment.

"And why, may I ask, did you stop?" she demanded.

He licked his fingers slowly, reveling in her sharp, tangy taste. Having finished that occupation, he then rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bed. "Stop?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow again.

"Oh," she said breathily, parting her legs to make room for him. "I see."

"Not yet, you don't," he said with an impish grin. "But don't worry; you will soon enough…"

And before she could even draw in a breath, he was moving inside her, and she was moaning and clutching at his back, twisting in the sheets, screaming his name so loudly she was fairly certain she woke the entire house, and he was groaning her name in her ear and kissing her over and over again until she felt as though she'd erupted into a shower of golden sparks exploding across the pitch black sky.

And then she was drifting off on happy waves of sleep, cuddled in her husband's arms, with no thought of their miserable courtship or the fact that she was still plotting against him.

That night, he was simply her husband, and she was content just to be with him.


	15. The Study

When Mercer went to retrieve Lord and Lady Beckett the next morning from their bedroom, the sounds preceding them alerted him that they were busy. He spent the better part of the next twenty minutes pacing outside the door to Beckett's suite of rooms, silently cursing to himself and wondering how it was that a miniature man like Beckett could still retain so much stamina.

Once he was fairly certain it was safe, he entered the parlor and moved through the office to Beckett's bedroom door, which was still splattered with dark ink from Victoria's momentary fit of rage the day before. He knocked to make his presence known.

"What?" Beckett snarled from the other side of the door.

"It's me, sir," Mercer said. "Are you… occupied?"

A pause and a giggle from Victoria, and then he received his answer. "I suppose not," Beckett said with a sigh. "Why?"

"I thought perhaps some breakfast was in order," Mercer said. "You need food to keep up that rather impressive staying power you've apparently been demonstrating to Victoria all night."

He heard Victoria laugh. "Jealous, are we?" Beckett said, also laughing.

"Hardly," Mercer said, reflecting on his own night, which had, in fact, been spent in the exact same pursuit. "So, do you intend to eat, or not?"

He heard Beckett sigh. "I suppose eating is a necessity," he said regretfully. "We'll be down in an hour or so."

"It'll take you that long to get dressed?" Mercer said incredulously.

"It's the night after my wedding, Mercer. Yes, it will."

Mercer snorted and turned away from the door. "Enjoy yourselves, then," he said. "I'll be downstairs, pretending I can't hear a thing."

"Do that," Beckett called. "And try not to look sullen when we come downstairs, just because you didn't have the opportunity to do something similar last night."

Mercer smirked. "That's what _you_ think," he muttered under his breath, and then he turned and quickly left the room, hoping to God they hadn't heard.

* * *

"What did he say?" Beckett said sharply as Mercer's footsteps began to recede.

Victoria pretended ignorance. "I've no idea," she said, inwardly smiling – she had heard despite his quiet tone. She shifted and settled against Beckett's chest, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling his neck. "Does it really matter?"

"It does if he said what I believe he did," Beckett said, but he seemed distracted – doubtless by the fact that Victoria was, of her own accord, cuddling up to him. "Are you tired, my dear?"

"Exhausted," Victoria sighed, letting her eyes flutter closed. "I hardly slept at all last night."

"I apologize," Beckett smirked. "That was my fault."

"Oh, I'm quite aware of that," Victoria quipped. "Why can't they send breakfast up here?"

"Because I don't particularly like the thought of a maid shuffling in and out of my bedroom gawping at me and my wife while we're… intimate."

Victoria looked up and pouted adorably. "But I'll have to put on my stays, and my stockings, and my hoops, not to mention all the parts of whatever gown I decide to wear. And then directly after breakfast I'm fairly certain all of it will come right off again."

"Smart girl."

"No," Victoria said. "I'm merely remembering a conversation we had many long months ago – one in which you declared you would be using me at every opportunity once I gave in to you."

"Hmm. So I did." He took a clump of golden hair and gently tugged, effectively causing her to look up. "And I'm missing an opportunity right now…"

"Bloody hell, Cutler, give a woman a little peace." Victoria smiled and rolled away from him before he could pin her beneath him. "Unlike you, husband, it may take me an hour to get dressed – especially without a maid's presence."

He frowned slightly. "Surely you own a simpler gown."

"I did, once – but you left all my old gowns at my parents' house and ordered elaborate new dresses for me in their places. Much as I appreciate your generosity, my Lord, you've made life much more complicated for me." She left the bed and moved across the room towards her wardrobe full of gowns.

"Remind me to call a tailor and have him fit you for some simple house dresses that won't be so difficult to put on," Beckett said, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes as though to drift off into sleep. A few seconds later, however, his eyes flew open again, and he propped himself up on one elbow. "You could always attend breakfast in that excellent attire you wore for me last night," he suggested mischievously.

"The frock coat?" Victoria cried, spinning to face him. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Yes, quite – so now would be an excellent opportunity to take advantage of me, because you won't find me in a generous state like this again soon."

"I have no reason to take advantage of you, my Lord." There was a hint of chill to her voice now; at first he thought he'd imagined it, but the quick way in which she turned from him confirmed it. He leapt from bed and moved purposefully to his dressing screen, slipping behind it and quickly sliding on his breeches and undershirt. Dressed in only these, he strode from behind the screen and across the room to his wife, where she was adjusting her shift. He caught her around the waist and kissed her neck. She shrugged him off impatiently.

"Why so cold?" Beckett demanded angrily at her sudden unfriendly response.

"Just tired," Victoria grumbled, grabbing her stays. "Weren't you dressing?"

Beckett watched her with a sharp gaze, finally turning back to his own wardrobe. He threw open the doors and grabbed the first suit of clothes his hand touched, throwing them over the back of the chair along with his wedding suit and crimson coat. He was reaching for the waistcoat when his personal study emitted an enormous bang.

Beckett noted Victoria's head swivel rapidly in the direction of the forbidden door and strode towards it before she could. "Something probably fell," he said, but even he could hear the tenseness in his voice that suggested otherwise.

"Must have been something large," Victoria said carefully, taking a step towards the door.

"Don't move!" Beckett ordered, turning a furious glare on her. She froze mid-step, staring at him like a frightened doe. He spun away from her and lightly touched the doorknob, murmuring an indistinguishable phrase. The door popped open, and he stepped in, eyes studying everything in the room.

"Is… anything broken?" Victoria asked, a touch of fear in her voice. She was immensely curious, he could tell, but she obviously didn't want to anger him.

Beckett looked around one last time. "No," he said, eyes narrowed. "No, everything seems to be in order…"

He stepped back out of the room and slammed the door. Almost as soon as the door closed, he began to sway unsteadily, stumbling backwards as he groped for a support. Victoria gasped and ran to him, catching him before he fell. "What's wrong?" she cried, true panic in her voice. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

Beckett steadied himself, leaning heavily on her shoulder. "No, I'm fine," he said, "Just… more tired than I had expected, I think."

"Liar," Victoria said accusingly, starting to lead him back towards the bed. "Sit."

"No!" he said forcefully, jerking away from her. He leaned against the wall and said in a slightly calmer voice, "I'm fine, Tori. Don't worry." He nodded towards the gown she'd pulled out to wear. "You should finish with that."

Victoria bit her lip and watched him for a few moments before turning away and hurrying to dress. Something strange was going on, and she was determined to find out what it was…

* * *

Later that same morning, when Beckett left the dining room to give orders to some servants for how they were to occupy their time that day, Victoria grabbed Mercer and hissed in his ear, "Is Beckett ill?"

Mercer stared at her as though she had lost her mind. "Not as far as I know," he said. "Why? He didn't seem to be suffering from any sort of illness last night."

"You wouldn't know," Victoria pointed out. "You weren't there – most of the night, in fact, as I recall. Just where were you?"

"He's never told me of any illness," Mercer said hurriedly, avoiding her question.

"Come to think of it, Cat was missing, too," Victoria noted with a mock frown. "I wonder where she could have got to?"

"Unless it's some new sickness. It might be," Mercer said, clenching his teeth. "Maybe he's caught a cold or something of that variety."

"I don't suppose you have any idea where she was, do you?" Victoria asked.

"You never answered my question," Mercer snapped.

"He went into his study to see if something was broken and when he returned he nearly collapsed," Victoria replied, a truly worried frown crossing her face. "I was terrified for him." A mischievous smile returned, and she said, "Now that I've answered your question, you ought to answer mine."

"Why was he in his study?" Mercer asked sharply.

Victoria arched a delicate brow. "There was a crash," she said. "He thought something had broken, so he went to make sure everything was all right. About my question."

"Broken?" Mercer looked thoroughly confused. "What the bloody hell would have broken in there?"

"I'm sure Cutler has an innumerable amount of valuable items from his travels hidden in there," Victoria said. "But apparently nothing was broken. He did seem a bit ill when he left the room, which concerns me, and that's why I asked you – but seeing as you know nothing about it –"

"Oh, that," Mercer said dismissively. "He's not ill; the study just… has that effect on him."

Victoria looked perplexed. "Why?"

"Something about the air in the room," Mercer told her; "It affects everyone who goes in there."

"I thought only he entered it."

"I've been in it a few times. Others have entered it, too, though they've not been so fortunate as to come back out."

"Dear God!" Victoria cried in horror. "What _is_ that place?"

Mercer laughed wickedly. "It's just a study, milady," he said. "You ought to learn when I'm toying with you."

She sighed in relief and then glared at him. "You ought to learn what's appropriate to say in a lady's presence," she said fiercely. "Speaking of which – where exactly was Cat last night?"

"How should I know?" Mercer growled, turning away abruptly.

"I know she was with you," Victoria said certainly. "She wouldn't have left without saying good-bye to me."

"Maybe she did." He glanced over his shoulder and saw the incredulous look on her face. "Fine!" he snarled. "She was with me! Are you satisfied?"

"No," Victoria said with glee. "What were you doing?"

"None of your business," he mumbled, turning away. "It's not something I'm proud of…"

Victoria looked surprised. "You can't seriously be regretting a night with her!"

"Of course I am!" Mercer said furiously, spinning to face her. "I was ridiculously stupid! I knew better than to… well, now it's done with," he finished moodily. "I've ruined her, and I'll never forgive myself for it."

Victoria's eyes softened. "I'm sure it'll be all right," she assured him.

Mercer laughed bitterly. "This from the woman who swore she'd never marry Beckett," he said. "Is everything all right for you, my Lady? Are you fully satisfied with the way others have arranged your life?" He waited for a response, but Victoria merely hung her head. "Exactly," he said harshly. "Women of your class – of every class – don't choose their own paths. Men make their choices for them. And do you honestly believe Lord Whitlock is going to choose a simple clerk to marry his daughter, the sole heir to a vast fortune and his only child? I doubt that very much." He turned his back on her and said, "Dream your pretty little dreams if you want to, Lady Beckett – but you were forced into this position by greater men, and Cat's sure to suffer the same fate as you. I've no illusions about that."

They sat in awkward silence, Victoria staring blankly at her plateful of food, until Beckett reentered the room whistling a cheerful song. He looked up and paused in the door when he saw the dour looks on their faces. "Bloody hell, what did I miss?" he asked.

"Nothing," Victoria and Mercer murmured dejectedly, Victoria taking a sip of her tea and Mercer respectfully standing aside for Beckett.

Beckett raised his eyebrows but didn't question further. He came to stand by Victoria's chair, bent, and lightly kissed her cheek. "I'm going out," he told her. "Company business, something urgent."

"They send for you the day after your wedding?" Victoria said in angry surprise. "What, do they think they own you?"

"In a way, they do," Beckett said darkly. "I'll be back before nightfall. It shouldn't take that long – and if it does there'll be hell to pay." He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "Don't stray too far."

"I didn't intend to," she promised quietly. "I'll wait for you."

Beckett smirked. "You'd better," he said with a laugh. With that he turned and left the room, calling for his carriage to be brought out front.

Mercer waited until he heard the front door close; then he turned to her and asked, "What are your plans for the day? I'll be going with you, of course."

"Not where I intend to go," Victoria said flatly, rising from the chair.

Mercer was instantly alert. "And where, exactly, are you planning on going?" he demanded.

"The bedroom," Victoria said, her eyes challenging him. "I didn't sleep much last night, and from my husband's last remark I don't believe tonight shall be much different. You'll forgive me if I don't invite you to join me."

"I wouldn't come even if you did," Mercer said, a touch of disgust in his tone. "But you're not such a woman, thank God. Not like the first girl."

Victoria froze. "What?" she gasped.

Mercer's expression didn't change. "The first girl," he repeated. "Don't you remember? The first day of your courtship, you and Lord Beckett had a discussion in which he mentioned another woman who died."

Victoria frowned in concentration. Abruptly the memory of the event returned to her. "Ah, yes – now I remember," she said with a nod. "I was always curious about her. How did she die?"

Mercer smiled darkly. "Murdered," he said, "After she was discovered to be with child by Duke Lawless even though Lord Beckett was courting her. Most unfortunate. Found her in a dark alley, close to the spot where I rescued you, actually. Probably some of the scum who wander the streets at night."

Victoria felt her blood run cold. "You killed her," she whispered. "You killed her on Beckett's orders."

The smile didn't waver. "Clever girl," he said, a bit condescendingly. "Beckett was… more naïve, in those days. It was a quite a long time ago. He was eighteen, she was twenty. Pretty little thing, named Perthina. Ridiculously pretentious and flowery name, but that's what parents of poorer girls do to make them appear more distinguished. Brown hair, blue eyes – looked a bit like Cat, now I think about it. She was a sweet girl, but extremely poor, and Beckett adored her. She would've made the perfect wife. She was quite demure – never so feisty or resistant as you. She yielded to Beckett's every command with a pretty smile and a curtsy. Pity the Duke was secretly bedding her the whole time."

Victoria flinched. "I imagine Beckett didn't like that," she said weakly.

"Not at all." Mercer casually flicked a fly from the worn cuff of his dark brown coat. "When he discovered she was carrying Lawless' child, he was ready to kill them both. But he couldn't very well order a duke's death without someone noticing, so he waited to avenge himself on him. He sent Perthina a letter asking her to meet him on personal business by a tavern called the _Barnacle_. And instead of him, she found –"

"You," Victoria finished, her stomach roiling. "How did you kill her?"

"Shot her," he said. "It was an easy death, better than she deserved for what she did to Beckett. I left her in the street for the scavengers to pick at. By the time they found her she looked as though her killer had completely mutilated her. There's a great many sick people in the slums – something you managed to overlook."

"I recognized the terrible people in the aristocracy," Victoria said cynically. "I knew Beckett was heartless the moment I met him."

"He made no pretense about that," Mercer said calmly. "He didn't plan on marrying after Perthina was killed, but as he continued to rise through the ranks he realized he'd have to. Then he met you. He loves a challenge, does Beckett; and right from the start you challenged him. Not particularly smart of you."

"I didn't realize rejecting him would only make him want me more," Victoria said nastily. "Why didn't he hate me when he discovered I had a lover?"

"It wasn't a personal slight; you had made it clear you had no intention of agreeing to be his wife and, to all appearances, you'd been with Orson longer than you'd known him. Perthina, on the other hand, intentionally betrayed him by going to Lawless. You're not so stupid or so corrupted."

Victoria stared at Mercer in horror. "How can both of you so easily slay the innocent?" she demanded.

Mercer's eyes narrowed. "She wasn't innocent," he said. "She set out to hurt him, and she did – so she had to die."

"Is it all that simple to you, Mercer?" Victoria demanded. "Those who hurt Beckett in some form must be punished?"

"Yes," he said tersely. "It's _that_ simple."

Victoria sank back into her dining room chair. "Why are you so loyal to him?" she asked despondently.

Mercer shrugged. "He saved me and my sister from destitution, even though we were both older than he was," he said. "He saw something in both of us that others didn't and employed us. I owe my life to him."

"And your sister?"

His eyes darkened. "She didn't see fit to return his favors with sufficient gratitude," he said.

"And I suppose Beckett killed her, too?" Victoria said disgustedly.

"She deserved it."

"How can you say such a thing about your sister?" Victoria demanded.

"She betrayed him," he said forcefully. "She wounded and decieved him, and for that she was punished. Justice was done."

"Justice?" Victoria laughed mirthlessly. "For who? Not for Perthina, certainly, and not for your sister, either."

Mercer looked away. "They're not different," he said.

"Oh, I suppose Beckett loved your sister as he loved Perthina?" Victoria said sarcastically.

"You don't understand," Mercer said quietly. "Perthina _was_ my sister."

Victoria froze, her eyes widening in horror as this new knowledge soaked in. "Oh, God…" she whispered. "He asked you to kill your own sister…"

"To prove my loyalty. Yes."

Victoria almost felt sympathy for him, until she remembered the cruel smile on his face as he had relived Perthina's death. "And you did it!" she said shrilly, leaping from her chair and scuttling away from him. "You _killed_ her without a second thought! And now you can smile about it!"

"Fugitives from justice are eventually caught and made to pay," he said tonelessly. "At least it was quick and simple. If anyone else had gone, she would have been raped and worse."

"And leaving her body to the scavengers?"

"Saved me from having to mutilate it for appearances. They did it for me."

Victoria pressed a hand to her mouth, a wave of nausea rolling over her. The cold, detached way in which he said all of it made it worse. He was beyond the point of human emotion – he didn't care anymore, couldn't feel the weight of the crime he had committed. Whatever love he held for Cat couldn't be real – because twisted men like him shouldn't be capable of feeling anything at all. "You're a monster," she hissed finally. "Beckett saved and remade you, and when he did, he made you a monster!"

She couldn't stand it anymore. She tore out of the room, running up the stairs as fast as she could, tripping over the hem of her skirt several times and cutting her arm open once on a sharp metal hook in the wall, meant to hold a painting or something of that variety. Heedless, she fled until she was locked behind the bedroom door. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and she withdrew from the door with a cry, backing away until she ran into the bed and tumbled onto it. She curled up onto it and began to sob.

She had known from the beginning that Beckett was ruthless, but somehow it had taken this story to truly prove it to her. One wrong step, and he would kill her without a care. Why he hadn't yet, she wasn't entirely certain – she'd already betrayed him, had she not? What was keeping him from having Mercer slit her throat? Certainly not love. If it was true that Beckett had loved Perthina, then Victoria didn't want him to love her. That sort of love meant enslavement or death, and she would have none of either option.

Suddenly, a loud pounding noise came from behind the door to Beckett's study. Victoria froze on the bed, eyes flying open and her heart leaping to her throat. She abruptly recalled Mercer's words - _Others have entered it, too, though they've not been so fortunate as to come back out._ Dear God, who was he keeping inside that place?

She rose slowly, inching towards the door. She held out her hand towards the knob – and leapt back with a cry of horror when the pounding resounded again. She stiffened her back and swallowed her fear, reaching towards the door and laying her hand firmly on the knob. She had to go in; she was going to see what else her husband was keeping from her. She turned the knob…

And found it locked.

She shook the door more frantically, attempting to open it, but it wouldn't budge. She cried out angrily and collapsed against its surface, banging her hands against the wood. An echoing pounding replied, but this time it didn't frighten her. She drew in a deep breath, calming herself from her brief bout of hysteria. When Beckett had opened the door, he had whispered something… what was it? "Open," she commanded. The door didn't budge. She frowned slightly. "Beckett?" she said, phrasing it almost as a question. "Excalibur… Faerie… Mercer… Victoria?"

It didn't move.

She went through a list of every possible phrase she could think of that might have some meaning to Beckett, but the door remained obstinately shut. Finally, she hurled herself onto the bed and growled, "It's no use; I might as well lay here screaming, 'Open Sesame!'"

And at that, the door sprang open.

Victoria looked up and inhaled sharply. It remained open, almost expectantly, as she stood and walked slowly towards it. It was pitch black inside, and she could see nothing. She reached for a candle, lit it, and held it up to the darkness – but it did no good. It was as though she had no candle in her hand at all. She blew out the light and, with another deep breath, put a foot into the room…

And found herself staring into a swirling blue fog whirling past her so rapidly it almost sucked her in.

She grabbed at the edge of the door's frame, clinging to it with all her strength as the blue light spun past. She squinted at it, realizing that within the cloudy light there were objects sailing past – Excalibur included. She watched as the items hurtled past her, trying to make sense of it. Excalibur had been odd, certainly, and the faeries more strange; but this was beyond belief. She didn't want to step further into the room for fear of being caught up in the whirling eddy of blue cloud, but she wasn't sure what she ought to do.

She was still standing there, undecided, when a hand reached out of the blue cloud and grabbed her arm. She screamed in terror and tried to pull back, but the arm clung to her. The cloud seemed to be tugging at him, but it was frozen in motion as the hand tightened its grip on her. Victoria jerked her arms backwards as quickly as she could, stumbling back out of the room in the process – and dragging the owner of the arm with her. The door slammed closed and locked itself, and Victoria suddenly felt incredibly dizzy. With no one to support her and the hand still clutching at her arm, she tumbled to the floor and laid there a few moments, her head spinning just as the blue cloud had done inside that room. Finally, she had the strength to sit up and look at what she'd accidentally freed.

She recognized him the instant she saw him. She leapt back from him as though he were a snake and hissed, "Orson!"

He looked up weakly, his skin as pale as the white paint of the door. "Tori," he whispered, a smile spreading across his face. "Tori, love…"

"Don't you dare call me that," she said angrily. She cast a sidelong glance towards the door. "What were you doing in there?" she asked.

"Imprisoned," he murmured, "By Lord Beckett…"

She remembered Beckett promising to move Orson somewhere where she couldn't reach him. "How?" she asked. "It's not a cell… it's just…"

"Don't… don't know… how it works," Orson groaned, clutching at his head. "Stop the spinning!"

"You'll recover," Victoria said a bit harshly. "Why did you pretend to love me even though you were married?"

"Huh… what?" Orson muttered, not even lifting his head.

"Don't play innocent," Victoria snapped. "I know about your marriage."

"Oh." He paused, attempted to sit up, then collapsed again. It was clear the effects of the room lasted longer the longer a person had been in it. "I'm… um… sorry."

"Is that all you can say?" Victoria cried. "I'm… uh… sorry?! You destroyed my trust and broke my heart and, what's more, opened the way so that Beckett could marry me!"

"You married, then?"

"Yes, thanks to you!" Victoria said. She wanted to throw something at the pirate pathetically lying facedown on the carpet. "I'm in this terrible situation because you wanted me to find you the sword. I'm disinclined to help you now, but helping him appeals to me even less – and you're bloody lucky that's so."

"Please not… talk about this… now," Orson mumbled, attempting to sit up and failing – again.

Victoria fell silent at that, knowing she'd get no coherent answers from him at this point. Just as he sat up, she heard Beckett's voice coming up the stairs, followed by Mercer's. The blood drained out of her face. "Zounds," she swore quietly. "Orson, you have to leave."

"I can't hardly stand -!"

"_Now_, Orson, or Beckett will kill both you and me!"

"He's _here?_"

As if in answer to his question, the parlor door creaked open and then slammed shut. "… wanted me to oversee a shipping order…" Beckett was saying to Mercer.

Orson dragged himself to his feet and clutched at the windowsill, sliding open the window. "I'll be back to speak with you…" he promised, "If I don't kill myself leaping outta this window… farewell, Lady Beckett…"

With that, he tumbled out of the window and began to free-fall down.

Victoria didn't wait to see the results of his fall; she slammed the window shut, closed the curtains on both sets of windows, and hurled herself onto the bed again, feigning sleep.

"… told Thomas that if he summons me again for so trivial a thing again I'll order his death by firing squad," Beckett finished as he opened his bedroom door. He paused in the door as he looked at Victoria's sprawled form. "She looks a little ill," he noted to Mercer, his voice low now. "Have you been fighting with her?"

"Nothing we can't resolve, sir," Mercer said evenly. "Some… issues in regards to Catherine, among other things."

"Ah, I see." She felt the bed sink under Beckett's weight as he sat beside her. He smoothed a blonde curl back from her face with such tenderness that Victoria almost allowed herself to forget that he'd ordered Mercer to kill his own sister because she'd wounded Beckett's pride. "Has she… asked about Orson lately?"

"No, sir. I don't think she's thought about him at all, actually."

A possessive note came into his voice. "Good."

There was a pause. Then, Beckett said quietly, "Leave us."

"Yes, sir." Footsteps, and the sound of the door clicking closed.

The bed shifted again as Beckett stood. She heard him walking and heard the quiet whisper of fabric; she guessed he was undressing. Her assumption was confirmed a few minutes later when he returned and laid next to her, with only the soft fabric of his undershirt pressing against her hand. He brushed more hair out of her face, and his gaze was so intense she could feel it even though her eyes were closed. She shifted in pretended sleep and snuggled close to him, pressing her face into his chest. He chuckled softly and rested his head on the pillow, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her more closely against him. He lightly kissed her forehead and breathed, "I love you, Tori."

_You won't,_ Victoria thought in fright. _Not when you discover what I've done…_


	16. Of Loyalty and Betrayal

For a time it seemed that Beckett would never realize Orson had gone missing. Although he spotted the large cut on her arm and fussed over it a great deal more than Victoria had expected he would, he seemed to believe her story that the fall had merely been her own clumsiness and not from a flight of horror. Apparently he was also quite confident in the pirate's security, because after a week had passed it was clear to Victoria that he never checked to make certain the captive was still there. Yet she constantly lived in fear, terrified of the day when Beckett would decide to see how Orson was faring in his mysterious whirling prison – and find him gone.

It wasn't as though she'd intended to release him. It had been entirely accidental – but Beckett would never believe that. And besides, she had still been meddling where he'd ordered her not to; his study, he had specifically warned, was off-limits to her.

She often gathered her courage and prepared to tell Beckett that she had unintentionally set Orson free, but every time she had resolved to do so, a mental picture of Perthina Mercer's beaten, bloodied, and mutilated body rose in her mind, and her fear overcame her. She knew eventually that Beckett would discover what she'd done and that she would be punished, and logically the punishment would be less if she revealed her mistake; yet her mind had never been one to obey logic, always prone to flights of fancy. In some way she hoped that Beckett intended to leave Orson to rot within the mysterious air whirlpool's bounds, and that she could go on with her life as though nothing had ever happened. But even if such were the case, Orson would return for the sword, and she would be forced to make a decision – align herself with her husband, or her former lover?

A choice between a murderer and an adulterer. How in God's name was she to pick either of two such horrible men?

She was often quiet and troubled in the following weeks, but if Beckett noticed, he said nothing to her of it. Mercer, too, made no comment upon her unusually solemn state, perhaps crediting it entirely to their argument. Sometimes, she had the feeling they'd perceived her despair – there were hints of concern in the way Beckett touched her hand or studied her face, in the tenderness to his usually brutal kisses when he made love to her. And Mercer was even more watchful than usual, tracking her every move with quick, darting eyes and a dark frown on his face. Victoria only prayed that, if they'd seen and were concerned, they didn't know the cause.

After a month as Lady Beckett, her husband received his first summons in quite some time from the Company – a summons for a brief journey to the English countryside to meet with a count hoping to exchange information about a valuable trade opportunity for goods.

"I'll be gone three weeks," Beckett told her in a soft voice, his blue eyes troubled. "Maybe less, if I can arrange it. I hate to leave you here by yourself…"

She smiled slightly. "You hate to leave your bed," she said with a tiny laugh, "When I'm warming it so well."

He didn't smile. "Perhaps," he said simply.

She frowned. "Something wrong, Cutler?" she asked. Normally he would have laughed at such a comment.

He looked away, arms crossed over his chest. "I… must take Mercer with me," he said. "It can't be helped; he's the only man who can do the job right in delicate arrangements such as this."

Realization dawned on Victoria's face. "You're leaving me without guard," she said.

He pursed his lips. "Yes," he said, almost as though the word were distasteful to him. "I don't have much choice, I'm afraid."

"What about the Faeries?"

"I don't trust them. They're fickle and easily swayed, and they like you. Even under my control they'd find ways to aid you in whatever you do. If I bar them from contacting you completely, you're safe. You'll be receiving no help from them in any form."

Victoria arched a brow. "You still don't trust me, my Lord?" she asked.

"Take no offense, darling; I adore you, but I'll never trust you. You can't have expected otherwise, not after that stunt with Sparrow – who, incidentally, is barred from the premises."

"Aren't all pirates barred from the premises?"

"They ought to be, yes," Beckett conceded. "However, he specifically is noted as the worst of the pirates and hence has the most safeguards against him."

"If he really wanted to, he could send messengers to me," Victoria pointed out.

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "But why," he asked in a deathly soft voice, "Would my sweet little pet want to receive messages from Jack Sparrow? Surely she isn't _still_ planning to betray the husband who has been ever so good to her?"

She cringed at the nickname he'd given her. "I'm not your pet," she said through clenched teeth. "And why would I tell you if I still intended to betray you?"

Beckett closed the distance between them very abruptly and grabbed her wrists. "Tread lightly, Victoria," he warned, eyes flashing. "I can more easily than ever make your life hell – and now there won't be a damn thing you can do about it."

"You're leaving me," Victoria pointed out, evenly meeting his furious gaze. "What's to keep me from doing what I choose?"

He raised one hand, and Victoria briefly thought he was going to hit her. Instead, he laid it gently on her cheek, cupping her face and tilting her chin upwards. "Loyalty," he breathed, "To the man you promised yourself to."

He kissed her, and she pulled away. "Because I had such a choice in the matter, didn't I?" she retorted, her voice as quiet as his.

The fury flared in his eyes again. "Then fear," he said harshly. "Fear of the man who could destroy every single dream you've ever had with a wave of his hand."

He stepped back from her, his arm dropping to his side. "If I can't have your loyalty, then I'll take your fear," he finished darkly. He turned away from her and tossed over his shoulder, "I leave tomorrow morning, long before you wake." He paused in the door and gave her a hard look. "I _will_ bed you tonight," he added forcefully.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Have I ever denied you your right to my body, my Lord?" she asked coldly. She saw a ready retort on his tongue and hastily added, "Since we've been married."

He smiled slightly. "No," he said. "But then, we haven't fought since the wedding. I was beginning to think it a miracle… 'til now. I knew leaving you would be a bad idea."

"Nothing's happened yet," Victoria said irritably. "Wait until your three weeks have passed before you pass your verdict on my behavior."

Beckett snorted. "I know you," he said. "You'll find some trouble or invent some way to make it, and when I return I'll doubtlessly have to clean up the mess you've made."

"I don't make messes," Victoria said flatly. "It's only when you involve yourself in my business that difficulties occur."

"Forgive me for taking an active interest in my wife's life," Beckett said sarcastically. "I have preparations to make for the trip; I trust you can entertain yourself on your own for the rest of the day?"

"Quite easily," Victoria assured him. "I expect you'll summon me tonight when you want me?"

"I'd like you right now," Beckett growled, "But unfortunately I shall have to satisfy myself with whatever gratification I can receive tonight. I'll call for you."

Victoria curtsied politely to end the conversation, almost as though she were speaking with a stranger. "Yes, my Lord," she murmured, but Beckett didn't hear her; he'd already left her alone in the parlor.

She was left by herself the rest of the day. Even Mercer appeared to be busy. She occasionally saw him rushing past her with various documents in hand, but he never paused to ask her where she was off to. Right before she wandered into the gardens for an afternoon walk, she spotted him in the library, loading his coat with all manner of deadly weapons – a pistol, several knives, a flintlock, and still others. She didn't want to imagine why Mercer needed to be so heavily armed, or who his victims were to be, or what they would look like when he was through with them. She hurried outside to the relative sanctuary of the garden, hoping to escape the dark thoughts rising in her mind.

But instead of finding sanctuary in the Rose House, as she had fondly begun to call her small cottage retreat in the garden, she found the source of all her trouble waiting right behind the door.

"Orson!" Victoria shrieked in astonishment when she pulled open the door and found the pirate leaning casually against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you I'd be back to talk with you," he said, not flinching even slightly at her outraged cry. "Weren't you expectin' me?"

"No," Victoria said, viciously slamming the door. "In fact, I was hoping never to see you again."

Orson rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry about the wife," he said, although he didn't sound sorry at all. "I should've told you."

"You shouldn't have had an affair with me in the first place," Victoria said hotly. "You ruined my life – you know that, don't you?"

"Seems that it ain't _me_ ruinin' your life, love."

"Beckett wouldn't have been nearly so interested in me without you!"

"What? You wouldn't have refused him if you hadn't been with me?" Orson chuckled. "I don't believe that for a second."

"Without the connection to the pirates I wouldn't have been nearly so useful and therefore not nearly so interesting," Victoria snapped. "And I would still be free."

"As free as a wench of your class can get," Orson snorted. "Don't kid yourself, darling; you'd have never been free, with me or no."

Victoria wanted to hurl something at him. "You may be right," she admitted, "But that doesn't give you the right to take advantage of me."

"No, it don't," he agreed, "But it's done with now. I pulled a rotten trick on you, I broke your heart, you found out, it's over. Can we move on now?"

"It's all so simple for you, isn't it?" she said harshly. "You wanted someone easy, someone you could trick, and you found me. And you tricked me, all right – and used me exactly as you wanted."

"Not as often as I woulda liked."

"Go to hell, Orson," Victoria snarled, grabbing the door handle and throwing it wide as she made to leave.

He leapt forward and grabbed her arm. "Tori, wait," he ordered. "You've gotta help me with that sword!"

She spun around to face him. "Excalibur?" she repeated incredulously. "You seriously still expect me to hand it over to you?"

"You've still got Jack's compass, so you must still wanna help."

Victoria sneered at that. "Yes, I've got Jack's compass," she said, "And I don't plan to return it. It's quite a useful object, don't you think? And I can certainly use it to my advantage. Better I keep it and use it to fight both you and Beckett than give it up to either side."

Orson's eyes narrowed. "You give Jack that compass," he commanded. "You give it back to him, and you give us the sword, while you're at it."

"Why?" Victoria demanded. "Why should I help any of you? Beckett is a murderer; you're an adulterer; and Jack Sparrow is a robber and a liar! How can I help any of you, when all of you are in the wrong? There are people I can and will aid and protect, but it won't be the pirates, I can assure you of that!"

Orson took a step forward and started to say something, but a voice cut across their conversation. "Tori?"

Orson stiffened. "Beckett," he hissed.

Victoria glanced back at him. "You'd best get out of here, before Beckett has you killed," she said icily.

"No time!" Orson said sharply, and ran back into the depths of the little house. Victoria glanced out the door to see what he meant and spotted Beckett approaching the house from the pathway leading to it.

"There you are," he said, walking to the door and pausing on the stair outside it. "I thought I would find you here."

"Can I do something for you, my Lord?" Victoria asked stiffly, her fingers tightening on the wooden frame of the door. His earlier threats to her still rang in her head; she was less than pleased to see him and more than a little angry that he was acting as though nothing had happened.

He bit his lip, looking concerned. "I thought…" He paused and glanced behind him at the two Company guards who had followed him. "Let's go inside," he said, nodding towards the house. Victoria hesitated, then gathered her skirts in her hand and swept indoors, Beckett following closely behind her.

When the door was shut and barred, he folded his arms behind his back and studied her carefully as she sat on the divan in the front room. She refused to look at him.

"I thought I ought to apologize," he said finally, breaking the silence between them. "The things I said earlier… were less than gentlemanly."

Victoria twisted her skirts in her fingers. "We both know you're no gentleman, my Lord," she said.

She expected an angry tirade for that, but instead he simply sighed. "Why is it that whenever I try to ask your forgiveness, you simply attack me again?" he asked her.

Victoria glared at the ground before her, still refusing to look directly at him. "Surely you don't expect me to so easily forget a threat to ruin my life?" she said. "Although, really, what else can you do to me? You've successfully manipulated me into marrying you, taken away my freedom, hidden away the man I thought I loved, and in general kept me locked away from the rest of the world so you can have me all to yourself."

"If I give you freedom, you'll run at the first opportunity."

"You're giving me freedom, Cutler – you're leaving me without guard for three whole weeks. I could run then, if I chose."

He set his jaw. "I know," he said softly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Victoria looked at him and was surprised to see genuine pain in his gaze. She tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. Finally, she stammered out, "I… well… there's nowhere I could go, you know. My family and I aren't speaking; Rosemary is involved in her courtship with Presbery; and I don't know where Cat is, she's not sent me a letter in so long… Orson is obviously imprisoned somewhere far away, and at any rate I'm disinclined to feel anything but dislike for pirates at the moment…"

That made Beckett smile. "That, at least, is comforting," he said. He tilted his head slightly to the side. "You've been… quiet since the wedding. Some days it's almost like I've lost you to some mysterious plane of your mind, and that you'll never return. Something's weighing heavily on your heart."

"A lot of somethings," Victoria sighed.

He took a step towards her. "I could help you, you know," he offered, "If you'd just… talk to me."

She laughed a little. "The great Lord Cutler Beckett wants to hear his little wife's thoughts?" she said. "That's a first."

He didn't say anything. She sighed again and confessed, "Mercer told me about… his sister."

Beckett winced. "Oh," he said quietly. "That explains… a lot of things."

"Why did you do it?" she asked sadly. "Why did you kill her? And why did you ask him, of all people, to do it for you?"

Beckett turned his back to her. "I didn't," he said. "My father did."

She looked up sharply. "What?" she gasped.

"My father hated Perthina," Beckett continued, almost as though she hadn't spoken. "He thought… well, he thought she was below me. And she was, I suppose. But I loved her. She was like Mercer, in a lot of ways – terse and quiet, but every so often she'd get this mischievous look in her eyes and she'd make some joke that without fail would make me smile. But she was more docile than Mercer, more apt to obey the rules and accept the natural order of things. She was the type of girl who makes me sick these days – the quiet, demure ones who do exactly what they're ordered and don't question anything. I found it charming at the time. But I was young and stupid… like you when you met Orson."

He turned to look at her again. "When it became clear that Perthina was with child, and that the child wasn't mine, I was… devastated," he said with great difficulty. "I couldn't believe that she would betray me. She told me it was Duke Lawless who'd fathered it, and I became intent on killing him. My father, on the other hand, knew it would be impossible to assassinate a duke without serious consequences. So he picked the easy target – the one he hated the most.

"It was perfect, really; I'd found Mercer and Perthina on the streets – spotted them because Mercer had slain a man who'd attempted to rape Perthina without even flinching. He was like lightning – he came from nowhere, he struck, and the man was dead instantly. That anyone could have such a talent for murder was beyond belief, but he did, and I hired him as a personal bodyguard of sorts. I also gave him training as a Company clerk, so that to all appearances he was a perfectly respectable, if undistinguished, Company hire. He made excellent money working for me – enough to support both himself and his sister – and we got along well. And I liked _her_, too. Anyone could see that. Mercer would have been delighted to see his sister so well settled, and I thought she wanted it, too – but I suppose I was wrong.

"He cut off all contact with her when he found out what she'd done. He has an unusually obsessive fervor for those who matter to him, and anyone who harms them – be they family, friends, lovers, or enemies – becomes a target on Mercer's hit list. Even his sister…" He drew in a deep breath, then continued. "My father didn't believe Mercer was necessarily loyal to me," he said. "Perthina's betrayal was the perfect opportunity to prove that his loyalty was lacking. He sent a message to Mercer with my signature and the family seal on it ordering Mercer to kill Perthina as a test of his dependability as well as vengeance for her duplicity. And Mercer did it, too – and he's proud of it now, that his devotion to me was strong enough even then to override family bonds."

Victoria felt sick at the thought of the horrendous manipulation that had occurred. "He doesn't know, does he?" she said quietly. "He doesn't know it was your father's command and not yours."

"No, he doesn't," Beckett replied. "If he were to find out that he'd killed his sister on the orders of anyone besides me… I believe he'd destroy himself."

Victoria hung her head. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I know it doesn't help, but it's all I have to offer you."

He smiled slightly. "That's not _all_ you have to offer me," he said. The smile disappeared, and he added, "Women like you and like Perthina are manipulated and ruined every day – pawns in the plots of men who claim to love you or who simply need your wealth or money. Nobody knows that better than Mercer and I. And when we look at women like you, and like Cat… we see all the ways you could be manipulated, and we want to pull you from the game.

"Cat's like Perthina in a lot of ways – she even looks like her. Mercer loves her because she's like Perthina before Lawless, before the difficult life of the poorer class destroyed her hope and her innocence. She's what Perthina could have been, if circumstances had been different – and he wants to protect that and keep it safe, because he couldn't keep his sister safe."

Victoria bit back tears. "When he told me what he did, I didn't think he could love anyone," she said. "But… I suppose that makes sense, really."

Beckett started towards her, but paused again, standing a bit apprehensively by. "I don't suppose this will make any sense," he said carefully, "But in a way, I'm trying to protect you, too."

She looked up at him. "It's not me you're trying to protect," she said certainly. "It's yourself." She stood and went to him, laying a hand pensively on his chest. "So long as you keep me locked away… so long as I'm safe from the rest of the world… the betrayal Perthina inflicted on you can't happen again. And that's what you're afraid of – that when I'm gone, I'll disappear, find Orson, and abandon you like she did."

He cringed slightly at this interpretation. "Perhaps," he said, a bit shakily. He turned away from her abruptly. "I don't know why I told you all this," he said, a firmer note creeping back into his voice. Victoria shook her head and smiled sadly – Cutler Beckett, she realized, never wanted to feel vulnerable, and he'd just opened a part of himself to her that he'd never intended to share – a weak spot that she could use to her advantage, if she chose…

Or she could let it go.

She followed him to where he'd stopped, back turned to her, and circled slowly around him until she faced him. "I don't know what to think of you, my Lord," she said, a small crease appearing in the flesh between her eyebrows as she frowned. "One moment I think you're heartless and cold, and the next… I think you genuinely feel something for me, no matter how much you'd like to hide it."

"Don't be fooled by my moments of humanity," he said bitterly. "They are few and far between. My father and my life have shaped me into a monster in the guise of a gentleman."

"Sometimes to survive, one must be ruthless," Victoria said, contemplatively resting her fingers on his lips.

He kissed the tip of each at first, then reached up, removed her hand, and kissed her lips instead. When he pulled back, he said fiercely, "Promise me you won't leave the house while I'm gone, not even to go in the gardens."

"If I stay inside all the time, I'll wither and die," Victoria told him.

"Then don't go outside without a guard. _Please_."

She hesitated. Then, she nodded. "I promise," she whispered.

He breathed a sigh of relief and kissed her again – completely unaware of the pirate watching the couple from the dark corridor beside them.

Victoria had forgotten that Orson was there, too, and didn't recall the fact until she and Beckett were walking arm in arm out of the house. She stopped abruptly, and Beckett glanced at her in surprise. "Tori?" he said questioningly.

"I think… I left my fan inside," she said hurriedly. "I'll be back in a moment." She removed her arm from his and rushed into the cottage.

Orson was waiting for her, arms crossed over his chest. "Well, that was a lovely display of marital bliss," he said sarcastically. "I hope you realize, whatever story he feeds you, that he's still a murderer."

"I think I know my husband better than you do, Orson, so kindly refrain from offering your judgments of him," Victoria said coolly, folding her arms over her chest. "I came back to give you my answer in regards to the sword. Pass it along to Jack Sparrow, if you will."

"Gladly," Orson grumbled. "What'll I tell 'im?"

"Tell him that I have his compass, if he should like to try to come and retrieve it," she said smugly. "Our bargain is void."

Orson glared at her. "And I expect you'll let your husband keep the bloody thing," he said angrily.

Victoria turned away. "That's for me to decide," she said evenly.

She felt something press against the back of her head and heard a _click_. "Don't make me kill you, Tori," Orson said quietly. "I ain't afraid to."

She stood frozen, but she said calmly, "If you shoot me, Beckett and the guards who followed him here will come into the house and kill you outright. What good will that do you?"

He didn't remove the gun for a moment, but then he growled and pulled it back. "I'll be back for you," he warned threateningly. "I promise you that."

Inwardly she shuddered, but she walked out as though she hadn't a care in the world. She was so good at acting as though nothing had happened that Beckett didn't even notice, except that he remarked, "You look awfully pale, Tori. I didn't notice how sickly you looked until now; despair doesn't wear well on you."

She grinned slightly. "A good thing I have no reason to despair now, then, isn't it?" she said lightly.

And Beckett smiled.


	17. Into Thin Air

Beckett was busy for the remainder of the day making preparations for his trip, and Victoria was quick to set about aiding him in any way she could. The manner in which he'd opened himself to her had softened her considerably nasty outlook on his character and aroused a strange desire to be close to him – almost as though she was seeking to protect him from the demons of his past. If she had been anyone else, her attentiveness would have annoyed Beckett – but her unusually tender behavior was a welcome respite from her naturally caustic responses to him, and he did everything possible to encourage her affection.

She was also uncommonly warm to Mercer, who, completely unused to Victoria's kind, more feminine side, didn't seem entirely sure how to respond to her when she was behaving agreeably. At one point he remarked to Beckett, "I'm just waiting for her to hurl something at me."

To which Beckett merely laughed and said, "I don't think you need worry, Mercer. She's having an amiable day for once; I suggest you enjoy it. I have the feeling there won't be another like it for quite some time."

On her part, Victoria took inordinate delight in the apparent confusion she was inflicting upon Mercer, and so set out to be even more helpful to him than to Beckett. She carried things for him, packed his (relatively few) clothes, and even brought several more armaments from his house on the grounds to him. That was her favorite task, because until that point she hadn't known where Mercer lived. Somehow she wasn't as surprised as she should have been to find that he had a small house on Beckett's property. Like a loyal hound, Mercer would never want to be very far from his master if it could be helped.

Mercer's house was relatively barren, with only five rooms (an entry room set up as a parlor of sorts; a kitchen; a two-room, very peculiar library dedicated to incriminating documents and all of Mercer's very elaborate weaponry, and a bedroom at the back). The walls were bare of any paintings or portraits; the only thing hanging on them were racks and racks of pistols, guns, and swords. Mercer owned almost nothing of sentimental value. The house was basically his accommodation when he had nowhere else better to be and a storage place for information and weapons.

Interestingly, it appeared a woman had been in the house in the recent past. Several plain servants' gowns were laid neatly at the foot of Mercer's bed, along with a shoe that clearly belonged to someone far wealthier than the owner of the dresses. Unless, of course, the dresses were merely a disguise…

As though to confirm this idea, Victoria noted a lock of rich, chestnut-colored hair tied with a beautiful silk ribbon sitting on a low table by Mercer's bedside. The lock, Victoria was certain, must have come from Cat, and the dresses were her protection when she slipped from home to visit Mercer.

When Victoria returned with the weapons Mercer had requested, she had an unusually cheery glint in her eyes. "I don't like that look," Mercer told her when she laid the weapons before him. "You get that look when you're up to something, and that always means trouble for me."

"I'm not up to anything," Victoria said airily, "Merely… observant."

Mercer looked briefly perplexed, then flushed dark red. "I know I can trust you _not_ to have been sneaking about my house," he said, in a way that indicated he didn't actually believe he could.

Victoria widened her eyes in a look of perfect innocence. "Of course you can," she said. "I merely retrieved exactly what you ordered me to and didn't look anywhere else."

"Liar," he muttered under his breath. "Don't you _dare_ tell Beckett about that lock of hair. Or the dresses."

"Are they Cat's?"

"No, they're mine," he said with a perfectly straight face. "Didn't you know I liked to run about London dressed as a wench in my spare time?"

Victoria rolled her eyes. "As amusing as that thought is, your sarcasm is unnecessary and unappreciated."

"I think it was _very_ necessary. Of _course_ they're Catie's; why the hell would I have anyone else's dresses and hair lying about my bedroom?"

"Catie? That's sweet," Victoria giggled. Mercer silenced her with a glare, and she cleared her throat. "There could be any number of reasons," she said, addressing his final comment, "Most of which I wouldn't care to know about."

"Smart girl," Mercer grumbled. "Weren't you going to help your beloved husband select the appropriate attire for meeting with a count?"

"Oooh, yes!" Victoria squealed, turning and running up the stairs as though she were an overly excitable schoolgirl. Beckett was quite good at dressing himself, but the thought of playing a dress-up game of sorts with her ruthless and cunning lord was absolutely too delicious to pass up.

Mercer snorted as he watched her disappear. "Tell Beckett he has my sincere pity!" he called after her. She responded by firing back a very unladylike oath, which made Mercer laugh so hard he nearly fell over.

When Victoria reached their bedroom, Beckett was trying out a new, hunter-green coat with gold edging and studying himself approvingly in the mirror. He smiled at her as she hurried into the room. "I don't think that swearing at Mercer was entirely appropriate," he said, the smile fading into a frown of mock disapproval.

"I can't believe you heard it; I must be much louder than I thought," she laughed. "Well, someone needs to bring that man down a peg; it might as well be me," she added brightly, wrapping her arms around Beckett's waist and laying her head on his shoulder. "You look quite dashing."

"Don't I, though?" Beckett said with a characteristic smirk.

"And, as always, you're so very modest," she said scathingly. "Speaking of bringing people down a peg, I may need to do the same to you."

"Try not to moan my name so loudly when I make love to you tonight and maybe you will."

She slapped his arm playfully. "Watch yourself," she warned, "Or I may do exactly that."

"You couldn't if you tried," he scoffed.

"Ooh, a challenge!" Victoria pulled back and looked him directly in the eyes. "Well then, Lord Beckett, I hope you're prepared to perform to your best ability tonight, because I won't make a sound."

"How much will you wager on that claim?" Beckett asked, pouncing on the opportunity like a cat on a flitting bird.

She grimaced. "Not much," she said, flushing.

"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "The woman's all talk; I knew it."

"How much are you proposing to wager?" she snapped, slightly irritated.

"When I return from this venture, I will have been three weeks in a cold bed," he said. "I'll wager three weeks _more_ without your ever so delicious company if you can successfully remain completely silent tonight."

Victoria arched a brow. "Do you think that an entirely wise bargain, my Lord?" she questioned. "You've become quite used to indulging your desires whenever they happen to grip you. Denying them when I'm so near to you may take quite a toll on you."

"I won't have to deny them," Beckett fired back, "because you won't be able to keep silent. I know exactly what to do to make you scream, and you know it."

"Ha!" Victoria snorted. "So you think. I accept your wager, my Lord, and I hope you're prepared to become quite familiar with your hand for the next six weeks."

"Either that or a brothel," Beckett said wryly.

"Don't you dare!" Victoria bristled, eyes narrowing. "I'll turn Mercer against you – see if I don't!"

"That's a weak threat, my pet," Beckett laughed. "Mercer is loyal only to me and will guard my secrets from everyone – including you."

"I think even Mercer would believe prostitutes to be below you."

"That doesn't mean he'd go running to you with the news should I opt to use the services of one."

"One thing you've failed to calculate into your analysis: Mercer likes me quite a bit," Victoria said smugly. "He's been protecting me for a year and half now, after all, so we've formed quite a bond. And if he thinks you're doing something hurt me, he won't be pleased. Maybe he won't tell me that you've decided to visit a whorehouse, but he'll stop you from going."

"He wouldn't dare," Beckett said certainly. "He might voice a protest on your behalf, but he won't do anything to physically prevent me from entering a brothel." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. "Why are we even having this argument?" he asked. "Even if you do win this wager – not bloody likely – I won't seek out a whore to take your place. That would leave me wracked with guilt, disgusted at the level to which I'd sunk, and incredibly unsatisfied."

"Oh, am I the only one who can satiate your desires now, my Lord?" Victoria chuckled.

"Yes, actually," he said matter-of-factly. "Having you is better than having any other woman, because I've never had to work harder to get anyone else in my bed."

"But I was worth it."

"Every last wretched, atrocious, agonizing second." He gathered her in his arms and kissed her again. "You know, I may actually miss you these next three weeks," he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

"Dear God! Lord Cutler Beckett is emotionally attached to his wife!" Victoria gasped in mock astonishment. "I may faint of shock."

He wrinkled his nose. "Please don't," he requested fervently. "I despise women who faint at the slightest provocation."

Victoria laughed and moved out of his embrace. "What other clothes are you bringing on this trip?" she asked. "That's why I came here."

"Liar. You came to me because, deep in your heart, you know you'll miss me too."

"Blasphemy." Victoria began rustling through his wardrobe, pulling out various suits and frowning thoughtfully at them. "And why aren't you taking this one?" she asked, pulling out the crimson and gold frock coat and matching waistcoat he had ordered to go with her wine-red dress.

"I won't have you there to set it off."

"You don't _need_ me there; it's marvelous by itself. Red is a good color for you."

"Is it? I didn't realize." He took it from her and caught her wrist, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. "Perhaps I should take you with me so you can tell me these things on the trip."

"I wish you would," Victoria sighed.

He smiled, but shook his head. "This arrangement requires extreme delicacy," he said. "Even a slight breach of etiquette could ruin our chance – and bringing my wife would be more than a slight breach of etiquette. And anyway, someone must remain behind to care for the house."

"You've left it before without a worthy hand to run it."

"I don't see the point in doing so again when I have such a person to run it for me now." He glanced at the sinking sun outside the window of their bedroom. "Supper should be ready soon," he noted.

"Are you hungry, my Lord?"

"Not particularly," he admitted. "Are you?"

She shook her head. "I snitched a little food from the kitchen in passing."

He grinned. "Well, then, who needs supper?" he said. "I have a long journey ahead of me tomorrow; I think we ought to go straight to bed… don't you?"

"Well, you do need your rest," Victoria agreed, quashing the smile spreading across her face.

He smirked, then turned and swung open the door leading into his office. "Lieutenant Andrews," he called.

"Yes, sir?' a voice answered.

"Go downstairs and inform the cook neither I nor Lady Beckett will be eating tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Beckett closed the door and turned back to Victoria, locking the door and walking back to her. "Where were we?" he asked, catching her around the waist and moving to kiss her neck.

Victoria smiled blissfully. "It must be marvelous to have minions that obey you unquestioningly," she murmured.

"It'd be equally marvelous if my wife was the same."

"It wouldn't. You'd be bored in a week." She slid her hands beneath his powdered wig and lifted it from his head, giggling at the brown curls that tumbled over his forehead. "I like your natural hair," she told him as he shrugged off his frock coat. "I'd tell you to grow it out and wear it instead of a wig, but that would be fashion blasphemy, wouldn't it?"

"Fashion blasphemy? I'd be stoned out of lordship, knighthood and my entire fortune if I decided not to wear a wig." He reached out and began to remove her stomacher from her dress.

"A little anxious, are we?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You weren't doing it, so I thought I'd help you," he said, looking as though he were concentrating very hard. "There. Shall I help you with the rest, or can you manage?"

"I can manage," she said easily. "However, I have one question in regards to the wager."

"Oh?"

"Does it apply to the entire night… or merely the first time you have me?"

He chuckled. "I'd like to say the entire night…"

"In that case, I rescind my agreement right now."

"Ha!" he cackled triumphantly. "I _knew_ you couldn't do it!"

Victoria's cheeks turned bright pink. "We'll see about that," she said, setting her jaw and determination coming into her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Beckett agreed in amusement. "We most certainly will…"

* * *

Victoria lost the wager. Badly.

So the next morning, Beckett was all smug looks and jabbing little comments as they ate breakfast – so much so that Victoria catapulted some egg across the table at him, using her fork to propel its flight. Unfortunately, it missed Beckett and hit Mercer, which left Mercer glowering in the corner while Beckett and Victoria laughed hysterically at him. He was glad to leave the house when breakfast was finished.

Beckett was considerably more reluctant to go, which was apparent even when he was already seated in his carriage and preparing to close the door. Victoria stood at the gate by the carriage door to see him off. He stared hard at her, as though he was afraid he might never see her again. Victoria wondered if he wanted to leap out and kiss her good-bye. And perhaps he did; but there were many Company soldiers standing nearby, and Beckett had a reputation to maintain. Instead, he nodded shortly to her and said simply, "I'll be back in three weeks. You can behave until then, can't you?"

"I'll do my best, my Lord," she said, her lips twitching into a smile.

He didn't return the grin. "Good," he said tersely. "Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye, my Lord," Victoria murmured, dropping a curtsy and ducking her head, silently hoping he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes.

But he _did_ see, and when the carriage was moving down the road he stepped back from himself and wondered with clinical curiosity at the wrenching guilt in his gut as her figure began to disappear in the distance.

"You should have said good-bye," Mercer said disapprovingly, interrupting Beckett's thoughts.

He turned a sharp glare on his clerk. "I _did_ say good-bye," he snapped. "Didn't you hear me – or are you going deaf?"

Mercer frowned. "You know what I mean," he said reproachfully. "Are you always going to treat her so coldly now you've finally won her?"

"Leave me to decide how I'll treat my wife," Beckett said heatedly, turning to stare broodingly out the window of the carriage.

"All right," Mercer said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Do what you want, sir. But don't be surprised if, upon your return, you receive a similarly icy greeting."

Beckett had nothing to say to that; Mercer was right, and he knew it. But there was nothing he could do about it now, so he merely watched the British countryside passing by with storm clouds in his blue eyes.

Victoria watched the carriage until it was long out of sight, standing outside in the cold air and shivering until Mary rushed out and practically dragged her in. "It isn't seemly to moon so after your husband," she scolded.

But Victoria didn't listen, or else simply didn't hear. For a week she seemed as one lost, wandering about the house and never staying long within one room. One night, Mary entered the master bedroom to find Victoria sprawled across Beckett's half of the bed, as though she was wishing the man himself was there for her to curl up against. She spent a great deal of time pacing restlessly around Beckett's office, running gentle fingers over his desk and flipping idly through various documents and books on the shelves. Once, Mary even spotted her, with her knees pulled up to her chin, sitting in his desk chair and hugging herself.

Her misery at Beckett's absence surprised everyone – including Victoria herself. She hadn't realized how used to his presence she had become, especially in the month following their wedding. Clearly, some sort of bond had been growing between them that she had failed to notice. Perhaps the new physical element of their relationship had caused the creation of this strange attachment; but then, perhaps it had always been there, and she had simply been too blind to notice.

Whatever the case, after a week and a half of restless wandering inside the house, Victoria became tired of being inside. The huge house felt strangely oppressive without the man who had created it sailing through its halls, and Victoria felt horribly stifled. As she had promised Beckett, however, she took two Company soldiers with her into the garden. They spoke quietly between themselves while Victoria walked a few paces ahead of them, wrapped in a warm fur cloak to keep out the cold and studying the frozen ground.

So lost was she in her own thoughts that she didn't notice when the conversation behind her abruptly stopped, nor did she realize that the sound of following footsteps had also ceased. In fact, she didn't notice anything was the matter until someone covered her mouth with one hand and hit her on the head with an extremely hard object clutched in the other.

And it was a long time before she woke up.

* * *

When the pounding came on the Thornes' door at eleven o'clock that night, Edmond was the only one at home. His father and elder brothers were gone on Company business, and his mother was visiting some friends in the country. Edmond had been rather enjoying his time as master of the house – now sixteen, he felt quite ready to run such a household himself, and he was eagerly seeking a woman to be mistress to his future property.

Like most young men, however, he didn't enjoy being dragged from bed at a ridiculously late hour of the night, no matter the reason, and thus he was less than courteous when he stumbled down the stairs and into the parlor at the bidding of the butler.

"What is it?" he snarled, covering his eyes at the brightness of the fire the butler had lit in the room and feeling his way to a chair, which he promptly slumped into with great relief. "What do you want?"

"Are you… you're not Benedict Thorne, are you?" a woman's voice asked timidly.

Edmond glanced up from his hand and saw a very frightened-looking servant girl standing before him, wringing her dress in her hands. "No," he said, flushing and straightening his robe in embarrassment. He hadn't been expecting a woman as a guest. "My father's out of the country at the moment. I'm Edmond Thorne. Can I… err… help you with something?"

The servant looked as though she was about to cry. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Thorne," she whispered, dropping a curtsy. "It's just… I didn't want to wake you, but… well, you see… it's your sister, Mr. Thorne."

Edmond leapt from the chair at that, humiliation at his state of undress long forgotten. "Victoria?" he said sharply. "Is she all right? Did that bastard hurt her?"

"Oh, Lord Beckett's been away for a week and a half," the servant said hurriedly. If the situation hadn't been so obviously urgent, Edmond might have laughed at the fact that the girl had known that "the bastard" was Lord Beckett. "She's been quite lonely without him. It isn't his fault. It's just… oh, sir, she's gone!" And she burst into tears.

Edmond strode across the room to her and gripped her shoulders. "Gone?" he repeated tensely.

"I don't know what happened, Mr. Thorne!" the woman sobbed. "She went for a walk in the gardens and… and she never came back! I went to search for her and… and… and I found her guards…"

"She had _guards_?"

"Lord Beckett doesn't want her outside the house alone, Mr. Thorne," she explained, drawing in a shuddering breath. "Afraid of the pirates, he is. Still thinks they want to attack her. And he must've been right, because… because… someone killed her two guards. Their… their throats… they were… oh God!" She began crying again.

"They slit their throats," Edmond murmured, horrified. "And she's gone…"

"Yes, Mr. Thorne. I didn't know who else to go to. I would have gotten Mercer first, but he's gone with Lord Beckett, you see. His Lordship was so agitated before he left… didn't want to leave her by herself, you see. Now I understand why. Oh, please, Mr. Thorne, you must do something! She's your sister!"

Edmond set his jaw determinedly – much in the same way Victoria did. "We'll find her," he said tersely. "But I can't do it on my own. I'll need some assistance. Send messages to Rosemary Wellington, Lord William Presbery, and Catherine Whitlock. Tell them to meet here tomorrow morning and send out search parties if they can. I'll leave a message with the family butler. In the meantime, I'll ride to Lord Beckett and inform him of what's happened. Where is he?"

"I don't know, Mr. Thorne; you'll have to ask Oscar Boddie, our butler."

"Is he near?"

"He's waiting outside, sir. He knows everything."

Edmond decided not to comment on the strangeness of this last remark. He ordered that the maid sit on one of the comfortable couches in the room and sent Eleanor for some tea when she appeared in the door. Leaving the servant alone, he rushed outside and found a strange old man seated on the steps, watching two horses as they stood in front of the modest merchant home. "Are you Oscar Boddie?" Edmond asked.

"Well, so I am!" the man said, sounding very surprised that he was indeed Oscar Boddie. "What do you want with him, I wonder?"

Edmond wasn't entirely certain that Mr. Oscar Boddie had all his wits, but the situation was desperate, and he forged ahead anyway. "I'm told you know where Lord Beckett currently is," he said.

"I do indeed. I know everything about everyone," Oscar replied, a shrewd gleam coming into his eye. "But if you mean to send a message to him – you do, you do, you don't need to tell me – you won't get one to him quick enough if you go on horseback. He's too far away, you know, and the horses you own are very slow. It'd be a week at least and you'd risk missing him on his return journey – not a good risk to take, m'boy, in circumstances so terrible as this."

"There's no other way to contact him, and this is an emergency," Edmond said in frustration.

"Ah, but there _is_ another way, if you suspend your disbelief a moment," Oscar said, raising an eyebrow. "You can give him your message right now, if you like… but you'll need old Oscar's help in the matter. You don't have the Sight; you'll need it."

"I… see," Edmond said, now quite sure that the old butler had lost his mind.

"Aha! But that's just it; you don't." Oscar stood up quite suddenly, the speed with which he rose belying his old age. He held up one hand as though he were balancing something in his palm. He mumbled something incoherent in the general direction of this upraised hand, and suddenly something wet hit Edmond's eyes.

"Ouch!" Edmond exclaimed, rubbing his eyes angrily. "What'd you…?" He stopped mid-sentence when he looked up again – because he could see a whole cluster of tiny, flitting female creatures floating about Oscar's back, and in his hand stood a very peculiar looking little man with mismatched and patched doll's clothing. "What… how… what _are_ they?" he gasped.

"Faeries, m'boy!" Oscar cackled, delighted by the confusion on Edmond's face. "Odd little buggers, aren't they? They work for Beckett, you see. And they can get hold of him in the blink of an eye and have him back here sooner than that. That's a brownie in my hand; he gave you the Sight by spitting in your eye. Not pleasant, but it's the only way he can do it. Tell the Asrai your message."

"The Asrai?" Edmond repeated in bewilderment.

"The pretty ones at my back, idiot," Oscar said, his voice turning harsh. "Now hurry if you want to rescue Lady Beckett. Such a lovely little creature, that. Wouldn't want the pirates to hurt her, would we?"

Edmond was so dazed that he wasn't even offended by the newly bestowed title for his sister. "I… uh… I need to give a message to Lord Beckett," he said, directing the remark to the tiny women sailing about Oscar's head.

"We know that," the one nearest Edmond's face said testily. "What is it you wish to say to our master?"

Edmond flushed, embarrassed. "Oh, uh… right," he said, clearing his throat. "Tell him… tell him Victoria's been kidnapped, probably by the pirates. Tell him we need him back _now_ if we're to find her. And… tell him I've sent for others to help, but that he's likely the only one who can rescue her." He grimaced at that last part, still unwilling to admit it to himself despite the fact that he'd just announced it aloud. "Tell him this message is from Edmond Thorne."

"As you command, good sir," the Asrai said, and she and her companions disappeared in a flash.

Edmond shook his head quickly to and fro, as though to clear some unhappy thought from his mind, but when he'd stopped and opened his eyes with the hope that he'd see no more strange creatures about, the brownie was still standing complacently on Oscar's hand. "Can… can that girl inside see them?" Edmond asked nervously.

"Course not," Oscar said derisively. "She's just Victoria's servant girl."

"But you're just the butler!"

"But I'm the best butler in the world," Oscar said with a knowing look in his eye, "Because I can find out anything about anyone. I've stored up every last bit of dirt on every single aristocrat ever to visit Lord Beckett's house. The stories I could tell you…" He cackled again, then motioned inwards. "Let's get inside. It's cold as hell out here."

"But hell is hot," Edmond said in exasperation.

"Not _my_ hell," Oscar said with great conviction. "In we go! In!"

Edmond normally wouldn't have responded kindly to being ordered about by a servant, but the situation he was currently in was so confusing and strange that he obeyed without a second thought. No sooner had he closed the door, however, than someone began banging at it.

"Jesus Christ!" Edmond swore loudly. "Who is it now?"

He fell instantly silent, however, when he opened the door and found a raging mad Lord Beckett standing there, hands clenched into fists, with Mercer behind him.

"Where is she?" Beckett spat, his eyes narrowed into nothing but slits.

"If I knew, would I have sent for you?" Edmond demanded.

"I would certainly hope so!" Beckett said tartly. "She's not yours to protect anymore, Edmond Thorne, though you can't seem to grasp that rather simple concept!"

"Apparently I'd do a better job of it than you," Edmond retorted, gritting his teeth. "Get inside."

Beckett did so despite the insult, probably because he was so concerned for Victoria's well being – much as it galled Edmond to admit it, Beckett seemed nearly as terrified for the new Lady Beckett as Edmond was. Following closely on Beckett's heels was Mr. Mercer, the clerk everyone slowly learned to fear. Edmond was surprised to note that Mercer appeared equally disturbed by Victoria's disappearance. Apparently her guard had become quite attached to her.

"I knew I should have stayed with her," Mercer growled.

"I couldn't have gone without you; you know that," Beckett snapped.

"I'm not blaming you, sir," Mercer said quickly to his master. "I'm more angry with myself than you. There were other precautions we could have set up."

"Or you could've taken the headstrong wench with you," Edmond grumbled, closing the door and locking it tightly. "Apparently, she missed you."

"Did she?" Beckett brightened only briefly at this before his face collapsed into bleak anger and concern once more. "We set up as many precautions as we could," he said to Mercer. "We could perhaps have done a bit more with the Faeries, but they might have turned on her and caused more harm than good, fickle things that they are.

"Wait," Mercer said as Edmond showed them into the parlor where Oscar and the maid were sitting. "Here's something I don't understand. We _did _put up a great many safeguards, including several hundred against pirates. How could they have gotten to her? They couldn't have broken into the house, and every pirate except Orson is guarded against."

Beckett dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "Then it must have been Orson," he said darkly.

"Orson?" Edmond repeated. "Tori's pirate lover?"

"Yes," Beckett said bitterly. "I had him locked away, but he must have escaped."

"But how?" Mercer demanded incredulously. "He couldn't have gotten out, not without help!"

"Exactly," Beckett said flatly. "Victoria must have let him out."

"Did she know where he was?" Edmond asked.

"She must have," Beckett said. "Bloody hell, I should have seen it coming. She knew where he was hidden, so when she saw her opportunity she released him."

"I don't think so," Mercer said, shaking his head. "She despises Orson now."

"So we thought," Beckett growled.

"My lord," the servant girl interjected abruptly, leaping up from her chair and hurling herself at Beckett's feet. "Please, my lord, she went out into the garden today for a walk. She went with two guards, just like you ordered her to. She was so restless, sir, she couldn't stand being in the house without you, you should have seen her, sir, I've never known her so sad -!"

"Shut up, wench!" Beckett spat, eyes burning holes into the poor girl. "Don't lie to soothe my temper; it'll only earn you a worse punishment in the end!"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but she en't lying," Oscar cut in. "I've never seen milady so depressed – 'cept of course when she first came to live with us. She's quite attached to you, sir, whether or not you realized it. Go look in your bedroom if you want proof; she slept on your side of the bed every night. The sheets are still stirred up where she laid."

Beckett appeared slightly appeased by Oscar's testimony, but he was still furious. "Why didn't you alert me sooner?" he demanded of the servant. "Why didn't you go outside with her? You're her servant, Mary; _why weren't you watching her?_"

Mary began to sob again. "Please, my lord, she had two guards with her, I didn't think I was needed -!"

"You're _not_ needed," Beckett said icily, "If you take the safety of my lady so lightly. I ought to have Mercer dispose of you right now."

"_Noo!_" Mary screamed, scuttling backwards across the floor as Mercer took a menacing step towards her. "Oh God, no! _Please_ -!"

"That is enough!" Edmond bellowed. Everyone was so astonished by his shout that they fell silent and turned to listen to him. "No one is going to dispose of anyone here," he continued forcefully. "All of us are distressed that Victoria's disappeared; make no mistake about that. But standing here threatening death and hellfire and pointing fingers at one another doesn't change the fact that she's gone. We need to organize our resources and start searching at once if we're to be sure –"

Before he could finish, the window of the parlor shattered inward. Mary threw herself behind Oscar with a scream of utter terror; Mercer leapt towards the window and fired three shots from his gun before Edmond even had time to blink; Beckett and Edmond remained frozen in their places, eyes staring at the broken window. Mercer snarled in frustration as he watched a dark figure fall screaming to the ground, clutching at his chest as blood began to pour from two nasty gunshot wounds. "Missed," Mercer hissed, eyes narrowed.

_If that was you missing, I don't want to see what your idea of hitting the target is,_ Edmond thought fervently as he watched the fatally wounded figure twitch in his death throes. "What were you aiming for? You hit him," Edmond said shakily.

Mercer glanced pityingly at the boy. "I was aiming for his head," he said evenly. "I was off by far too great a distance." He paused and glanced down at his feet, suddenly stooping over. When he stood, he was holding a brick in his hand with a strip of parchment attached. He tore the parchment from the brick and read it, his glare dark.

He turned to the breathless and waiting company assembled in the room and looked in Beckett's direction. "_To Whom It May Concern (Lord Beckett, Mr. Mercer, and the Thorne Family): We have Lady Beckett in our possession,_" he read. "_And we will not return her until we have the sword. Lord Beckett knows what we are referring to. Deliver this message to him as soon as possible and see to it that our price is brought to us. If we do not have the sword, we will not return Lady Beckett. Lady Beckett is safe… for the time being. If our bargain is accepted, come to the Blind Beggar on Wednesday next with the sword. You will be met with one of our agents. Terms of the exchange will be discussed upon our meeting at the Blind Beggar."_

Mercer took the parchment and crumpled it furiously in his hand. Then, he recited the last line for them, fire in his eyes:

"_Signed, Orson Shaw and Captain Jack Sparrow._"


	18. Suffering Separately

That night was a long and sleepless one. Oscar Boddie and Mary related everything they knew about Victoria's actions during the previous week and a half (and Oscar, it seemed, knew everything – exactly as he'd claimed) to Lord Beckett; Lord Beckett, meanwhile, explained exactly what Orson Shaw and Captain Jack Sparrow wanted from him to Edmond, who would never have believed him if he hadn't been capable of seeing the faeries the sword controlled himself. Indeed, the faeries were literally everywhere in his house – it appeared that they followed their new master wherever he went (or, at least, some of them did. Edmond couldn't imagine the Asrai and the funny fellow called the Brownie were the only faeries in the world.)

Beckett advised Edmond to act as though he knew nothing about the sword; whoever else was summoned to come to their aid wouldn't be able to see the faeries and hence wouldn't believe the veracity of the tale. This was an immense relief to Edmond, who wanted as little explaining to do as possible. His mind was ragged at its edges and he feared he might go mad in all the chaos and confusion.  
Mr. Mercer and Oscar Boddie proved to be immensely helpful. As they were both servants, though of a different sort, they were quick to see to their betters' needs. Oscar ordered Eleanor to make Lord Beckett tea, and kept the otherwise miserable chairman of the East India Trading Company happy in that regard. Mr. Mercer also helped Edmond's difficulties by soothing his master as best he could, keeping the man from exploding in a rage and ordering someone's head served up on a platter.

When it was nearly four o'clock in the morning, Lord Beckett was finally so weary that he had no choice but to sleep. Eleanor made sure that Victoria's old bedroom was sufficiently clean enough, then let Beckett stay there. If the reminder of Victoria's absence was painful to him, he didn't show it. But then, he was already so clearly disturbed by her disappearance that nothing more could possibly have made his pain more obvious.

That pain was a source of vast confusion for Edmond. He had spent the past two years loathing the man his sister now called her husband; he had been dead certain that all Lord Beckett wanted from his sister was her body and the knowledge that he had broken the wild, unyielding Miss Thorne. Yet it was plain to Edmond now that the man held some sort of affection for his sister; else, why would the thought of losing her cause him such distress?

Edmond slept fitfully for a few hours, but finally unable to rest, he rose at six o'clock and went to see how his guest was faring. It appeared that Beckett couldn't sleep, either, as he was speaking quietly to Mercer. Edmond listened through the door, silently praying Mercer didn't notice his presence.

"It's fortunate the negotiations had concluded just before the message from the Asrai arrived," Mercer was saying in an attempt to be comforting. Mercer knew little of the subtle art of lessening a friend's emotional pain; Beckett plainly realized this, as he didn't seem to expect Mercer's words to actually soothe him.

"Yes," he conceded, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. "I should have said good-bye to her."

"I told you that when we left."

"Shut up," Beckett growled at his minion. "I knew you were right then and I know it now even more plainly. What if they kill her?"

"They wouldn't dare," Mercer said surely.

"Wouldn't they?" Beckett said bitterly. "Orson, I suspect, would have no qualms about harming her if it gets him what he wants."

"But that's just it; killing her wouldn't get him what he wants," Mercer pointed out. "If he kills Victoria, he has nothing to bargain with."

"So long as we don't realize he's killed her, he still has an advantage."

"Too risky," Mercer said assuredly. "If she'll be in any danger of near-death, sir, it will be after the sword has been given to the pirates."

Beckett sighed heavily. "I can't give them the sword," he said. "If it falls into their hands…"

"You have the belt and the staff."

"Minor protections with which to guard myself from bodily harm," Beckett said dismissively. Edmond frowned; what in God's name were the belt and the staff to which Mercer had referred? "With the sword, they could damage the fortunes of the Company; and if the Company goes under, then so do I."

"True," Mercer admitted regretfully. He paused. "What about Victoria, then? Will you leave her to them?"

"NO!" Beckett said this so forcefully that even Edmond leapt back from the door in startled fear. "No," he said again, softly now. "I won't leave her to that filth. She doesn't deserve that. Her innocence has been corrupted enough as it is; if I leave her to them it'll be destroyed completely."

"That wouldn't be an entirely bad thing, my Lord," Mercer said dryly.

"Losing her would be," Beckett said tersely.

There was another pause. "You really do love her, don't you?" Mercer said in surprise and disbelief.

"I'm not capable of loving anything."

"I beg to differ," Mercer said with a snort. "If she were any other woman, your wife or no, you would leave her to the pirates to dispose of. Imagine if you'd married Miss Harris."

"No," Beckett said in disgust. "I've had nightmares enough tonight; the last thing I need is to conjure one up of my own accord by picturing _her_ as my Lady Beckett."

Edmond stifled a laugh at that.

"All right, then," Mercer chuckled, "Don't imagine it. But you'd leave her to the pirates without thinking twice. The same is true for any other woman. What makes Victoria more valuable?"

"For all you know, she could be carrying my heir," Beckett pointed out frostily.

"You've certainly bedded her enough for that to be the case," Mercer said deprecatingly, a comment which made Edmond grimace in disgust, "But even so, you can't be assured that she is. At any rate, chances are she's been beaten and bloodied enough by the pirates that any child she'd been carrying would be dead by this point."

"You _had_ to say my worst fears aloud," Beckett groaned.

"You think they've beaten her and killed your child?"

"I'm more than certain they're torturing her in some form, even if there's no child to be murdered."

Edmond wanted to burst into the conversation and scream, _But this Orson was her lover! How could he turn on her so quickly?_

"Well, Orson obviously never harbored feelings for her," Mercer said, as if he'd heard Edmond's unspoken question. "Being married and all that before he met her..."

_What?! _ Edmond thought, outrage rushing through him at this fact. _How could he betray my Tori in such a fashion?_

"He'd be capable of harming her," Mercer continued, a shrug in his voice. "I'm not so certain of Sparrow."

"I am," Beckett said flatly. "Sparrow is a traitor and a liar, just like every other pirate. And he despises me, too."

"Not unreasonably," Mercer muttered, but Beckett didn't appear to hear him.

"He's hated me from the beginning," he said, his voice chilly. "He'll seek out ways to harm me, mark my words. If it belongs to me, then he'll be certain to destroy it no matter the consequences."

Edmond didn't like how Victoria had become an "it," a possession, in that sentence.

"A lady's different than a ship… or even a cargo," Mercer pointed out. "And he did everything you asked him to until you sent him on a mission to deliver slaves to the Caribbean. He wouldn't have released them if he didn't have a moral problem with selling people."

"They're not people, they're property," Beckett said irritably.

"Some 'people' wouldn't agree with you on that point."

"Those same 'people' treat their own wives as though they were possessions," Beckett said irately, "So how can they say they don't believe the Africans are people and not property?"

"I haven't noticed you treating Victoria like a possession in the recent past," Mercer said quietly.

"I stated not a few minutes before that_anything that belongs to me, _like Victoria, Sparrow will attempt to destroy."

"Granted. But if she was only something you owned, you wouldn't be nearly so concerned about her fate."

"Not true!" Beckett snapped. "She's an extremely valuable asset -!"

"Of which there are literally thousands of other even _more_ valuable assets desperate to be bought by a man like you," Mercer said calmly. "If you had no personal attachment to your wife, you wouldn't be fretting like this about her welfare."

Beckett apparently had nothing to say to that, as there was total silence in the room for a few minutes. Finally, just as Edmond was about to slip away, Beckett spoke again. "Do you think… do you think, perhaps, she released Orson, ran off with him, and arranged this kidnapping in order to steal the sword from me and escape with him?" he asked tremulously.

"Do you think she's duplicitous enough to do that?" Mercer snorted. He quickly amended, "Wait, don't answer that."

Beckett didn't laugh. "She's wanted nothing more than to be with that bloody pirate from the beginning," he said miserably. "What if she saw her opportunity and slipped off… just as I'd feared she would?"

"She wouldn't do that," Mercer said gravely.

"But she doesn't want me. She's made that clear from the beginning."

"She seemed sad enough to see you go."

"So she's a bloody good actress!" Beckett snarled. "She's been plotting this from the beginning, I imagine. She knew I'd grow lax in my surveillance of her; she knew I'd begin to trust her; and then she knew she could destroy me!"

"Cutler," Mercer said forcefully, all the more powerful because of his uncharacteristic use of Beckett's given name, "Victoria _is not Perthina!_"

The anger in his voice startled Beckett into silence and made Edmond step back a pace from the door. _Who is Perthina? _he wondered, immensely perplexed, but Mercer's tone suggested that he didn't want to know.

Finally, Beckett replied in a small voice, "I know. It's just… you know how she felt about Orson – and me. What if she… maybe she wanted…"

"I know," Mercer interjected, calmer now. "But I don't think you need to worry." After a moment, he said, "I can go to the _Blind Beggar_ and see where they're keeping her."

"They'll know you the minute they see you."

"That's why one of my spies would be going to check on her, and not me."

Beckett chuckled mirthlessly. "I should have guessed," he said. "Please, do that. I…" He stopped speaking, and Mercer filled the sudden silence.

"If they're hurting her, I'll kill them," he promised darkly.

"Do that – but only if you can be sure they won't kill her first," Beckett ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Edmond leapt away from the door and moved quickly down the hall. When he was far enough down the corridor, he turned and began to walk slowly back in the direction of Beckett's room, stretching as though he'd just awakened. When Mercer opened Victoria's bedroom door and stepped out, he spotted Edmond immediately. However, he didn't appear to suspect that Edmond had been listening in. "I'm going to see where they've taken Lady Beckett," he informed Edmond, inclining his head respectfully.

Edmond pretended to be surprised. "I should go with you," he volunteered, but Mercer shook his head.

"You'd be in great danger, Mr. Thorne," he said firmly. "I have contacts at the tavern where they're keeping her. They'll be able to find her unnoticed and bring me back information on how she's faring without the pirates suspecting anything."

"Ah," Edmond said, nodding knowingly. "I should have realized. Well… do be careful. And, Mr. Mercer?"

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

"If Orson's hurt her… let me kill him."

The clerk chuckled menacingly. "If you can get to him before Beckett does," he said, "Then the pleasure's yours…" He turned and started in the direction of the door, then paused and glanced over his shoulder, adding…

"…But don't count on it."

* * *

Victoria opened her eyes slowly, her lids fluttering vaguely as she struggled to regain consciousness. And it was indeed a struggle; it felt as though her mind was submerged deeply in all the layers of her subconscious, and it was altogether too reluctant to leave. 

Victoria began to understand why when at last she awoke fully and felt the most incredible pounding in her skull. The pain came suddenly and throbbed so forcefully that she cried out in agony. She tried to reach up and clutch her head, but found this impossible as her hands were bound tightly at the wrists by rough cord. This made her cry out even more loudly as panic began to rise, a massive bubble, into her chest and up to her throat, choking her with terror. "_Cutler!_" she screamed frantically, praying to God that she was still in their house and that he was near. She realized instantly that, firstly, this wasn't their house, and secondly, Beckett wasn't even in London. This realization only set her to panicking further and hence only made her scream the louder. "_CUTLER!_"

"Shhhh!" someone exclaimed sharply. "D'you want the whole bloody inn to hear you?"

"Yes!" Victoria choked out, looking up. She saw a vague shadowy figure in the doorway of the small, dingy room, which was completely dark except for several strategically placed candlesticks that flickered with small, pathetic lights.

"Congratulations, you've done a bloody good job of it. Now shut it!" The figure stepped into the light, and Victoria's eyes narrowed.

"Sparrow," she spat venomously. "I suppose you'd like your compass back."

He frowned. "You look bloody awful," he told her, leaning close to her and wrinkling his nose. "He must have dealt you quite a smack. I've seen goose eggs smaller than that bump!"

Victoria involuntarily made to touch the bump, but again realized her hands were tied. "Untie me," she ordered frostily, lifting her chin proudly.

"No," Jack said, sounding more than a bit indignant. "Wouldn't be very bloody smart of me, would it, untying my ransom and letting her escape?"

"Ransom?" Victoria repeated, her voice tremulous.

"Well, yeah," Jack said, sounding a little embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry about all this. It'll all be cleared up soon, once the man in miniature agrees to my very reasonable demands. Then you can go home."

"The man – oh," Victoria said, remembering Jack's nickname for Beckett. At that moment, realization dawned. "You're holding me captive until he brings you the sword!"

"Exactly," Jack said, beaming. "And everything'll go smooth as a seal's backside if you just stay calm and quiet."

Victoria decided not to ask how he knew about the smoothness of a seal's backside. "That's a lot to expect of me," she said. "You could do anything to me if I promised to keep silent."

"Guess you'll have to trust me," Jack said, grinning.

"No," Victoria said flatly.

The grin evaporated. "Hmmph," Jack said. "That's not very sporting of you. Perhaps if I gave you some rum…"

"You'll do no such thing," Victoria said, jerking her head forward and instantly regretting it as pain surged throughout her skull.

"Might help you forget that headache you've got," Jack pointed out.

"It will most certainly help me forget my propriety!" Victoria said sharply.

Jack chuckled. "That's what I'm hoping for, love," he said.

"Pig," she spat, leaning back against the wood of the wall and wishing it were cool stone. "Could you at least move me somewhere more comfortable?"

"That could be arranged," Jack said with a nod, anxious to please. "I'll just run up and -"

"No, you won't."

Victoria gritted her teeth and closed her eyes tightly at the new voice. "Orson," she snarled, clenching her tied hands into fists.

"'Allo, poppet," Orson replied easily. He then addressed Jack, saying, "If she knows where the sword is, we won't have to deal with Beckett at all. When he comes, we can set some creature after him and have it kill him, then get rid of this baggage." He motioned to Victoria as though she were nothing.

Jack grimaced. "That's a whole lot of killing, mate," he said uncomfortably.

"What?" Orson mocked. "Not man enough to stand the sight of blood?"

"Spilling as much as blood as you can doesn't make you a man," Victoria hissed, eyes still closed.

"Tell your husband that," Orson retorted.

"Listen," Jack said nervously, stepping between the duo, "I don't like Beckett any more than you do. Most likely he deserves the hangman's noose. But then, so do we, ay?" He waved his hands in the air, as though to dissipate the statement. "Chances are, Beckett is at this moment of more value to us alive than dead, being able not only to bring us the sword but also able to negotiate the cease of the government scourge on pirates, what with his lovely bride's life so… endangered…." He turned quickly to Victoria and added reassuringly, "As false as that danger may be."

"False?" Orson repeated incredulously. "Maybe she's in no danger from you!"

"The girl's worth absolutely nothing once dead," Jack said, stepping almost protectively in front of her. "Besides…" He floundered momentarily, looking for another reason to spare her. Finally, he added, "She's got my compass!"

"I can tear its location from her," Orson said, grinning maniacally. "You'll see, Sparrow – we'll find both it and Excalibur yet."

"No!" Jack exclaimed. "No, listen to me! We have to wait for the opportune moment!"

Orson hesitated. Jack took heart at this and continued. "Think about it," he said. "Charming Beckey comes prancing in here with his soldiers and his hitman and points a gun at you and demands to see his wife. What are you going to do? Bring him a corpse? Do you think he'll find that an acceptable payment for the most valuable sword in the world? I rather doubt it. And even if you beat her about a few times, leave some marks, spill a little blood, he'll notice. And an angry Beckett is not a good Beckett to reason with. Believe you me – I know." Jack's lip curled, and he shuddered. "So _wait_," he advised. "Be patient… and wait."

Orson considered this for a long time, then finally nodded. "All right," he sighed. "We'll leave her be for the moment."

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. "As long as we're agreed," he said, scampering around Orson and inching towards the door, "I intend to make myself scarce. The little fellow and I don't get along particularly well."

"He's not so little," Victoria said quietly.

"Oh, please," Orson laughed. "The bastard's the tiniest man I've ever seen."

Victoria opened her eyes and looked directly into Orson's face, a small smirk blossoming. "Certain parts of him are larger than you could ever hope yours would be," she informed him, eyes sparkling.

Jack snickered and immediately attempted to inhale the laugh when Orson shot him a dirty glare. "Weren't you making yourself scarce?" Orson said coldly.

"Scarcer than a dodo bird!" Jack said, leaping out of the room as though he'd been kicked sharply in the rear. Victoria wanted to giggle as she saw him run out, but she realized her situation was far too dire for laughter.

Orson watched and waited until Jack was far enough away; then, he slammed the heavy wood door closed and turned back to his prisoner with a nasty smile. "Well, now he's gone…" he said brightly, showing none of the anger he had before, "I think it's time you told me where that sword is. And tell me 'bout that compass, too, love, while you're at it."

"Didn't you just agree that we'd be waiting for Beckett to bring you said objects?" Victoria questioned, eyes narrowing.

"Who's going to be here to hold me to that promise?" Orson replied, a dark smile growing. "Jack's gone; he's taken a ship and run from this place. He has a meeting with Davy Jones."

"Davy Jones?" Victoria repeated incredulously. She had, of course, heard of the dreaded creature that captained the _Flying Dutchman_; but she had never believed that he existed. But then, she had never believed that faeries or Excalibur existed, either. Who was she to scoff at the notion that Jack might have an engagement with Davy Jones? "Whatever for?"

"He's askin' for his ship back," he said, waving the comment away. "The _Wicked Wench_. Beckett sunk it, you know."

"I didn't realize," Victoria said quietly. "The ship must have meant a great deal to him."

"Fastest ship on the ocean, that," Orson said, sighing almost regretfully. For a moment, he seemed a thousand miles away, lost in the world of pirating and dreams that Victoria had so recently come to loath. Suddenly, he came back to himself, turning on her with startling speed. "But that ain't the point, is it, love? Jack'll want his compass back, and all of us want that sword. Where is it?"

Victoria lifted her chin defiantly, her lips pressed into a thin line, her green eyes narrowed into hateful slits. Her silence spoke louder than any words could have.

Orson shook his head, almost regretfully. "You made me do this," he said softly to her, hand straying to his belt. "Remember that. It's _your_ fault, what's coming to you…"

And then there was a knife glinting ominously in his fingers.


	19. Farewell Hope

When Mercer descended the stairs and paused briefly on the landing, preparing to leave, he was surprised to hear female voices speaking none too softly to one another in the parlor. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog listening to an unfamiliar sound, and tried to guess who was sitting in the parlor at this ungodly hour of the morning as he stepped unnoticed towards the door.

"I don't understand – why did Beckett's butler summon us here?" a stranger's voice, very distinctly masculine, was saying when Mercer finally drew close enough to hear the conversation.

"Something to do with Victoria," Rosemary Wellington's voice replied. She sounded tired and a little bored, as though certain this wasn't an issue of great concern. "She probably means to escape from Beckett while he's out of town."

"I doubt it," another woman's voice replied. Mercer's heart leapt at the sound – he knew that voice too well. Cat was here, as well. "She's become quite fond of Beckett – which you would have noticed if you'd spent any time at all away from your _charming_ suitor."

"As if I've had a choice," Rosemary snapped, affronted by the comment. "It's not as though _he'd_ let me get away."

"Excuse me, ladies, I'm standing right here," the man said irritably; apparently they were discussing him. Mercer peeked through a crack in the door and saw that it was Lord Presbery, who was standing behind Rosemary's chair and looking less than pleased to be there.

"You're good enough at avoiding chaperones," Cat fired back at Rosemary, ignoring Presbery's interjection. "Surely you could employ the same techniques to escape your beau."

"Catherine Whitlock!" Rosemary exclaimed. "Don't you _dare_ insult me just because you're frightened for Tori's welfare! I'm sure she's just fine."

Mercer decided it was time to interrupt the argument. "I'm afraid you're wrong, Miss Wellington," he said. He pushed open the door and stepped into the parlor, closing the door tightly behind him and then moving further into the room.

"David!" Cat leapt from her chair and ran to him, heedless of the couple on the opposite side of the room. "What's wrong? Where's Tori? What's happened?" Mercer made to reply, but Rosemary spoke first.

"David?" she repeated incredulously. "You're on first-name terms with Beckett's lapdog now?"

"Call me a lapdog again and I'll kill you," Mercer growled, stepping threateningly towards her.

"Easy there!" Presbery exclaimed, moving protectively in front of Rosemary. She merely pushed him out of the way.

"I'll call you what I choose," she said haughtily. "You have no right to stop me."

"I have a bargain for you," Mercer spat. "You can call me a lapdog when you learn to keep your legs closed!"

The two of them probably would have killed each other at this if Cat and Presbery hadn't been present. Presbery grabbed Rosemary around the waist as she lunged in Mercer's direction, dragging her kicking and screaming towards the opposite side of the room. Mercer, on the other hand, was pushed backwards by Cat, who leapt in front of him as he made to attack Rosemary and threw all her weight against him to keep him from harming the other woman.

He managed to calm himself a little with Cat speaking soothingly to him, and would have settled down even more if Rosemary hadn't shouted across the room, "Robbing the cradle as well as the bank now, are we, Mercer?"

At that he was intent on killing the slatternly wench, no matter the consequences. Not even Cat's desperate pleas would have stopped him. But before he could reach the cursing and struggling Wellington girl, a gunshot echoed in the room, shattering a pane of glass and causing both women to scream. Mercer and Presbery leapt protectively towards their respective lovers and looked about the place for the danger, but there was none – except for Beckett, standing in the door still in his nightclothes, wigless and with a smoking flintlock in his hand.

"I apologize if I startled you," he said, his voice deathly soft. "I'm under a bit of duress at the moment, you understand. My wife has been kidnapped by pirates and is currently being ransomed, and I'm afraid I'm a bit… on… edge." He said the last words with furious force, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched. "And if you good people," he continued, his voice stabbing into them like daggers, "Would be so kind as to _shut it_ for a few moments and put aside your vast personal differences, I would be ever so grateful." He paused, then said hatefully, "Was that too dense a concept for you? Let me put it like this: _shut up and listen to me or I will kill every single one of you with my bare hands._ Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Mercer murmured – the only one brave enough to answer.

Finally, Cat ventured in a very small voice, "Tori's been kidnapped?"

Beckett's eyes darted in her direction so quickly that she leapt back and clutched at Mercer, almost hiding behind him in fright. "Yes," he said, the tone of his words still tense and angry. "By Orson and Jack Sparrow. They're keeping her until I bring them a certain property in my possession – an extremely valuable property that would be… quite dangerous in their hands."

"But you'll give it to them?" Rosemary interrupted, suddenly afraid for Victoria. "To save her life?"

"I won't be leaving without Tori," he said, steel in his voice. "Rest assured of that. But you haven't been summoned here to learn of the details of our exchange."

"Then why did you call us here?" Rosemary demanded. "So you could take out your frustration on us by shooting at us and frightening us to death?"

"I need you to do something for me," Beckett said, glaring so coldly at Rosemary that even she fell silent in alarm. "Each of you has assets that I can use this Wednesday when I go to retrieve Tori from her captors. I suspect that Orson means to take from me what he needs, then kill or kidnap Victoria before I can rescue her. Obviously, we can't allow that to happen."

"I take it you have a plan," Presbery said, stepping a little closer.

"Of course I do," Beckett said, more irritated now than angry. "I can't reveal all the details, lest the information should get out. But I can tell each of you individually what I need you to do. Firstly, however, I suggest we alert Edmond to your presence here and get some breakfast. That ought to soothe everyone's ruffled feathers."

Everyone relaxed as Beckett's more rational, calculating side began to take over. He set the gun down on the table just as Edmond peeked his head into the parlor.

"Will I get shot through the head if I ask you to pay for that window?" he said to Beckett, remaining hidden as much behind the door as he could.

"I believe that's a perfectly reasonable request," Beckett said, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself and turning towards the Thorne boy. "I apologize for the damage, Edmond. I… had to make a point."

"I imagine you made it quite clearly," Edmond said dryly, stepping into the room. He glanced at Rosemary and smiled awkwardly. "Good to see you again, Rose," he said. He shot a dirty glare at Presbery. "Lord Presbery," he said frigidly. "Why are _you_ here?"

"He's with me," Rosemary said, glaring at her unwanted suitor. "He likes to follow me about… somewhat like a dog, actually." She glanced at Mercer. "You two would be great friends," she added nastily.

Mercer's hands clenched into fists. "I can't imagine why you don't like him," he said evenly. "A bitch needs her mate, after all."

"Why you -!" Rosemary made for him, but Presbery grabbed her.

"Down, girl," he said sarcastically. "Down! Sit! Stay… staaaayyy…"

Rosemary tore her arm from him, deeply affronted, and stomped to Edmond. "Come on, Eddie," she said, kissing the boy lightly on the cheek. "Let's get breakfast and leave this lot to scratch their fleas."

"Watch out, Edmond," Mercer whispered to the young Thorne. "From all the men she's had, she's got far worse afflictions than fleas…"

"Shut it, Mercer," Edmond hissed back. He led Rosemary out of the room with his nose in the air and slammed the door on the remaining group.

Presbery shook his head. "The poor boy's got it badly for that wench," he said with a sigh.

"Apparently so do you," Beckett said dryly. "Still courting the Lady Whore, Presbery? It's been nearly five months, you know."

Presbery flushed, knowing that Beckett was referring to their original bargain. "I find myself quite enjoying my somewhat futile attempts to seduce the Mistress of Seduction," he said lamely.

"Ah. I see," Beckett said simply. He turned his back on Presbery and Cat and said to Mercer, "I don't think I can handle anymore from this lot. Send them up to Victoria's bedroom one by one once they've eaten, will you?" He paused, then added, "Oh, and Mercer? If you happen to catch a certain butler listening at the door, hang him from his ankles in the cellar."

"Stuff and bother," a voice from outside the door mumbled, sounding considerably put out. Then there was a great deal of scampering. When Beckett opened the door, Oscar Boddie was nowhere to be seen. Beckett shook his head and heaved a sigh, starting up the stairs and rushing away as quickly as he could.

* * *

Rosemary was the first to be sent to speak with Beckett. They were the two worst enemies, and Mercer wisely thought that saving her for last was probably not the best idea.

She knocked lightly at Victoria's old bedroom door, feeling very strange. She hadn't had to knock on that door for quite some time – ever since she was ten, she'd been running up the stairs and hurtling through no matter what her friend was doing.

But it wasn't Tori waiting for her when she was permitted to enter. She cringed at the sight of Beckett calmly sitting at Victoria's desk, fully dressed and wigged now. "You don't belong in here," she told him resentfully.

He looked about the room. "No, I suppose I don't," he said. "But neither does Victoria now. She hasn't for awhile." He looked shrewdly back at her. "It'll be the same with you soon enough."

"What on earth do you mean?" Rosemary demanded, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Beckett raised his eyebrows. "Lord Presbery seems quite determined to have you to wife," he said.

"His determinations have nothing to do with what I want," Rosemary said coldly.

"Ah," Beckett said, nodding sagely. "Smart of you. I personally can't abide Presbery. The two of you together… that would be the worst possible match I can imagine."

A nasty little idea began to form in Rosemary's head. "You know, Lord Beckett," she said innocently, "It would be an excellent match, really. He's quite rich, and very handsome – a quality not _all_ the Company's wealthy men possess." She glanced at him as though to indicate that it was to him she was referring.

His expression went sour. "Do what you want, Miss Wellington," he said none too kindly, "But please, try not to kill the poor man with one of the manifold diseases you've picked up from your other patrons. The Company needs him."

Rosemary's smirk evaporated. "What do you want, Beckett?" she snapped.

He grinned. "I need you to distract whoever happens to be guarding Victoria at the _Blind Beggar_," he said. "Your ability to seduce even the most level-headed men is unparalleled – as proven by Presbery's apparent love for you. And what with all the men you've had, all you'd need do is dress in whore's clothes and leave your hair down, and you'd trick anyone who'd never met you before."

"You want me to pretend I'm a _whore_?" she cried.

"Pretend?" Beckett repeated with an incredulous snort. Rosemary bristled, but Beckett held up his hands in surrender. "I apologize," he said, forcing a contrite tone into his voice. "That was… tasteless of me."

"No surprise there," Rosemary said through gritted teeth. "You have no right to ask me to play the role of a prostitute."

"Perhaps not, but I need a distraction. Obviously I don't need to protect your innocence," Beckett continued coolly, "And you've had more than enough experience to convince even the most suspicious man that you've been whoring all your life."

The lack of subtlety in this request was stunning even for Beckett. "How dare you demand this of me?" Rosemary snarled.

Beckett stood and walked slowly across the room towards her, his gaze so intimidating that she stepped away. "Because the life of your best friend is in danger," he said quietly. "And if I don't find a way to distract her guard, Orson will most likely kill her. Then you will be without your best friend and I will be without the woman I love. And I highly doubt either of us want that."

"You don't love her," Rosemary said heatedly.

Beckett closed his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. "Now is really not the time to argue about this, Rose," he said, forcing himself to remain calm. "I need you to help me."

"I don't want to help you," Rosemary said stubbornly, a little disturbed by his use of her nickname.

"Do you want to help Victoria?"

She nodded slowly.

"Do it for her, then," he suggested. When she still seemed hesitant, he sighed and said, "Bear in mind that if you do this for me, I'll owe you a favor."

Rosemary began to grin, very wickedly. "Well, when you put it like that…" she said with a chuckle.

"Bloody hell," Beckett muttered. "I'm going to regret this."

"Yes, you most likely are," Rosemary agreed. "Fine. Find me some whore's clothes and I'll do as you ask."

"Thank you," Beckett said acerbically, sounding both irritated and relieved at the same time. "Mercer will bring you what you need. You are dismissed."

"Hmmph," Rosemary huffed. "Dismissed! I'm not a servant you can boss about, you know!"

"Rose." Beckett glared threateningly at her. "Get. Out. _NOW._"

With another affronted huff, she turned and flounced out.

The other meetings went smoothly. No one else was as defiant as Rosemary; but then, their jobs were considerably more pleasant than hers.

Presbery, it was decided, would disguise himself and lead the King's soldiers to the _Blind Beggar_. While there, they would sneak onto various pirate vessels, destroy them, and arrest every pirate they could get their hands on. When Beckett gave them the signal, a separate group would break into the _Blind Beggar_ and arrest or kill everyone there except for Beckett and his agents. If it came down to it, Mercer was to be arrested, too; that way he could maintain his presence in the London slums without his connection to Beckett being discovered.

Mercer would of course be at the negotiations between Beckett, Orson, and Sparrow; if he wasn't there they would become suspicious as to his whereabouts. However, in the commotion of the arrest, Mercer would be able to slip away and find Victoria. Rosemary, they had decided, would 'accidentally' drop some small trinket outside the corridor or room into which she had gone. Mercer would use that trinket to track her down, find both her and Victoria, kill the guard whom Rosemary would be so effectively distracting, and then get Victoria out.

Cat, young and innocent looking as she was, was to disguise herself as a boy and wait with a plain, dark carriage just outside the inn. Mercer and Rosemary would bring Victoria to that carriage, and they would make their escape. Beckett would remain behind to give orders and to make sure Orson and Sparrow were caught or disposed of.

This would have been completely out of the question under normal circumstances. Mercer would never have allowed Beckett to stay in a situation where his life was endangered – but Beckett had safeguards enough to protect him, secret weapons that no one save Mercer knew of. He would be able to survive any assault that might be brought against him.

The plan was a messy one, and Beckett didn't like it, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. The next day was Wednesday (unhappy, damnable, fateful day that it was), and he had to have some sort of rescue in place.

Besides, he had another secret weapon, one of which only he was aware, that would change his fortunes entirely…

* * *

_So farewell hope…_

What felt like days and weeks and months passed by Victoria in a haze of agony, even though they might only have been a few hours. She slept feverishly, waking to a glinting knife in the dark and pain… so much pain…

_"Where is it, you little whore?"_

"Don't… know… leave me alone…" she whimpered.

A kick in her stomach. A punch. The blade flashing the dark…

_"Tell me where the sword is and I'll let you go."_

"I don't know!" 

She _didn't_ know. She couldn't remember. Her thoughts were all blurry in her head. It flitted just on the edge of her knowledge, dancing just before her eyes, but when she reached out to grab it, it slipped through her fingers like smoke.

_Where is it?_

Sometimes she laid on the dirt floor, curled up into a little ball, and let her mind wander. It was the best way to escape the harsh reality of her situation – _don't focus, don't remember where you are, forget everything except the happy memories…_

There were many happy memories, too, things she had forgotten…

A new doll her mother had purchased for her when she was five, whom she had named Juliette.

The gorgeous gold silk gown she'd worn to the ball the night she had met Cutler – ostentatious for her station, but so, so beautiful…

Her first argument with Cutler. Why did it make her smile so much to remember that little smirk?

Her mother brushing her hair before bed…

Her governess, whispering tales of pirates and glory and freedom on the high seas into her ear just before she slept…

_No. No pirates. Pirates are wicked. Pirates are evil. A knife in the dark…_

Spitting olives into the wigs of the aristocrats with Rose, Cat sitting behind them stifling giggles and gasping in horror, "Tori! Rose! For goodness' sake, behave!" How silly, she'd thought then; who would ever want to behave?

That gold ring glinting by Cutler's place on the table at the Thorne household, his initials emblazoned so prettily on its front – reaching out her fingers and closing them tightly around it, feeling the cool metal against her skin. It had touched the skin of his hands, and by touching it, so had she.

Etiquette lessons. Trying to sit up properly. Trying to learn the appropriate expressions and behaviors without collapsing into giggles and gasps. Learning to sew. Learning to paint, sing, dance – how boring!

Trying to teach herself to read with her father's copy of _Paradise Lost_ spread on the floor, stumbling over the unfamiliar characters, trying desperately to make the words make sense…

_So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my good…_

"Cutler…" The name was a rasp from between dry lips; she hadn't been fed at all since Jack had left. She wasn't given much to drink, either… and she was so tired, but her mind wouldn't sleep…

_So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse:_

"WHERE IS IT?"

"I don't know!" she sobbed. She clawed the ground. There was blood. She could taste it; it was metallic in her mouth. She couldn't tell where it was coming from, but she could taste it…

_Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost…_

"Come on, he'll be here soon, I know you know!"

The knife. The knife flashing in the dark. Lacerating pain, delicate, articulate, burned across her skin. The blade glinted like a cold, merciless grin in the flickering light of the candles…

The Rose Garden. She was back in the Rose Garden. She was sitting on the divan, and Cutler was standing behind her with his hands on her shoulder, kissing her cheek, smoothing back her hair…

"You're strong. You're stronger than I thought you'd be. You made me do this, you know. If you'd just tell me…"

"I don't know."

_So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse: all good to me is lost…_

"Get up. Get up, you stupid bitch. Get up."

A swift kick in the side. When she finally withdrew from her head, when she finally dragged herself to her knees and looked up, there was no knife. She was expecting the knife. Where was it? Hidden. Hidden in its sheath, waiting to leap out and attack her again…

"He'll be here any minute." The voice was harsh, terse, cold and angry. "I can't give you back to him like this. You understand that, don't you? I can't do that. I'll put you the ship. You'd like that, right? You've always wanted to be on a pirate ship… right love? Right?"

She hugged her knees. "All good to me is lost," she muttered, almost like a madwoman. "Farewell fear, farewell remorse…"

"What?" The voice was sharp now, angry. "All right, fine. Say whatever you like. I know, it's been tough for you, right, love? But you brought this upon yourself. You shouldn't have got involved with that bastard. You shouldn't have changed sides. You shoulda stayed with us, love. But things'll turn out all right. I'll put you on the ship. Yeah. You'll be free."

She looked up at her captor, her eyes narrowed, caked with blood and grime and sweat and full of fury. "So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse," she said hoarsely. "All good to me is lost; evil be thou my good…"

"I…what? I don't -!"

"Orson?"

An unfamiliar voice. She looked at the doorway. There he was – the owner of the voice. Some man. Some thing. Some _pirate_. "Pirate." She spat the word venomously, her eyes narrowing, cold green slits.

The pirate stepped back. "Jesus bloody Christ, Orson!" he gasped. "What'd you…? How could you…? He'll kill you! He'll kill us all!"

"He don't have to know." Orson spat on the ground by Victoria. "We'll put her on the ship and keep her in the brig awhile. When we're far enough from shore we'll get someone to look at her."

"You're bloody mad," the pirate said, sickened. "Nothing in the world can fix that."

"She'll be fine," Orson snarled. "She's just… she's just upset. She's _recovering_."

"You really _are_ mad," the pirate said in disgust. "I'm done." He turned away, then motioned upstairs. "Beckett's waiting for you."

Victoria snapped out of her daze almost instantly. "Cutler?" she said breathlessly.

The pirate looked at her sympathetically. "Yeah, he's here for you, darling," he said gently. "You'll go home soon."

"_No_," Orson said forcefully. "He can't have her back. He'll kill us. We're taking her with us, Tyris."

"No!" Victoria cried, struggling to stand and collapsing. "No! I want Cutler!"

"She's not going with us," the pirate called Tyris said angrily, "And neither are you. You said you were holding her captive; you didn't say you were trying to _kill_ the poor thing."

"You can't throw me from the crew!" Orson exclaimed.

"Yeah? Watch me," Tyris said with a mirthless laugh. He cast another sympathetic glance at Victoria. "I… I'm sorry, Lady Beckett," he said softly. "I know it ain't much, but it's all I got for you."

She looked up at him, holding his gaze with angry and confused eyes. He shuddered slightly and turned away, rushing up the stairs.

Orson growled angrily and turned back to Victoria. "Stay here," he ordered. "I'll send Wesley Yarbrough down here. He'll watch you 'til I get back."

He turned and walked away. She caught sight of the knife briefly, a small flash in the candlelight, and she withdrew in terror, scuttling back against the wall. Orson didn't notice. He ran up the stairs and disappeared, and Victoria curled into a ball again and hugged herself tightly, sinking back into despair.

_So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my good…_

* * *

Rosemary spotted Orson the instant he appeared from the cellar of the _Beggar_. His hair was tousled and his face haggard, and there was a glint of madness in his eyes. Rosemary shuddered as she spotted a dirty knife at his belt, blood from the last cut still clinging to its edges; whose blood, she wondered in horror? Not _Tori's_?

Orson hurried over to a man seated at one of the multiple wooden tables scattered about the room – a good-looking, tanned man with messy blonde hair as long as his shoulders, pulled away from his face by a dark blue kerchief. He was well sculpted and jovial looking, with a wide smile. His teeth were disgusting, like most pirates' teeth, she supposed, but he was quite attractive otherwise. When Orson pointed towards the cellar, Rosemary smirked slightly. _Good,_ she thought. _This will make my task infinitely easier._

The man stood and stretched, cracking some kind of joke that made Orson laugh nervously. Then he started off towards the cellar, leaning casually against the wall beside the door and laying his hands behind his head, looking for all the world as though he were merely lounging comfortably and not guarding a valuable captive.

Orson followed the man briefly, then hurried up the stairs leading to the second floor of the building. Rosemary wished she could follow him, but she knew Beckett had the matter under control and that she would only be a danger to their negotiations. She waited a few minutes, then sailed slowly across the room towards the man.

The dress she wore was unfamiliar and smelled of a sickening amount of perfume, but Rosemary supposed this was typical for a prostitute. It was actually far more comfortable than her usual dresses – no huge skirt to get in her way as she moved. The stays, admittedly, were ridiculously tight, but her bosom practically exploded out of the dress – which served her purpose quite well.

She came up beside the guard and leaned as casually against the wall as he was. "You look lonely, darling," she said in a sultry voice. "And the wall can't be nearly as comfortable as you're attempting to make it look. I'd think a bed would suit that gorgeous tired body better."

The man grinned at her. "I'd like nothing better, love," he said, looking her up and down. "Unfortunately, I've got me a duty."

"Oh, come now," Rosemary pouted. "Surely you can slip away… just for a little while? I promise it won't take too long."

He threw back his head and laughed. "I like you," he said to her. "How much?"

"Six guineas," she said, raising an eyebrow as she opened her palm and teasingly wiggled her fingers at him.

"Done." He pushed open the door to the cellar. "But we've got to do it down here," he told her, catching her wrist and pulling her towards the dark stairs. "I can't leave this… er… _thing_ without a guard."

"Ooohh, dangerous, is it?" Rosemary giggled, carelessly dropping the necklace she'd been wearing the day before – the trinket that would lead Mercer to their hiding place. "I like danger," she told the guard in a low voice, a smirk growing on her usually pouting lips.

"Good," the man growled darkly. "So do I."

He slammed the door behind her, scooped her up, and carried her, stumbling, cursing, and kissing all the way down the stairs, shoving her hard against the splintering wooden wall when they finally reached the floor.

She was so caught up in distracting him that she didn't notice the quivering, bloody figure trembling in the corner and watching them with horrified wide green eyes…

* * *

Mercer was standing in the dark corner of one of the _Blind Beggar_'s upper rooms when the doorknob clicked and the door's hinges creaked. He turned his gun towards the door as it swung open, cocking it and glaring threateningly at the intruder. It proved, however, to be Orson – the very man that Mercer and his master were waiting for.

Beckett was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded behind his back and the light shining on his rich green ensemble, set off most notably by a richly woven green belt. He looked over Orson's shoulder as he stumbled in. Seeing that no one was standing behind the pirate, Beckett demanded in a deathly soft voice, "Where is Sparrow?"

"Left," Orson said, waving a hand towards the sea. "He had an appointment."

"More important than this one?" Beckett questioned skeptically.

"So he said." Orson shrugged, then held out his hand. "The sword," he ordered.

Beckett nobly arched a brow. "You certainly don't waste any time," he said dryly. "Yes, I have it here." He pulled back his overcoat, revealing the bright gold hilt of an ancient sword, still sheathed at his waist. "Now, where is Victoria?"

"She's safe," Orson said evasively.

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "Is she indeed?" he said suspiciously. "I'd like to see her."

"Once I have the sword."

"No," Beckett said, voice slashing dangerously through the air and making Orson wince. "_Now_."

Orson began to pace nervously, and Beckett felt his blood run cold. _He's killed her,_ he thought, fury rising in him. _He's killed her! He's killed her, and he's going to steal the sword from me – and in all likelihood, kill me too…_

Finally, Orson stopped his incessant pacing and faced Beckett. "Please, give me the sword, and I'll explain everything," he said, holding out his hand again in a demanding gesture.

Beckett studied him with wary eyes, withholding his anger and fear. Finally he held open his frock coat and said, "Take it."

Orson was now the suspicious one. "Why?" he demanded, drawing back. "Is there some kind of curse?"

Beckett sighed irritably. "It's part of the sword's spell," he said, as though explaining it to a little child. "The new owner must withdraw it from the sheath themselves; else it does not belong to them, but still to the previous owner."

Orson nodded, comprehension dawning. "I see," he said. He stepped greedily forward, eyes locked only on the sword. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around the shining hilt, and pulled the blade from its sheath. There was a strange metallic ringing sound that echoed through the room as Orson held the sword aloft. Then, with a shout, he turned and stabbed Beckett through the stomach.

* * *

Rosemary grimaced as she was slammed against the wall, hard enough to break bones. She gritted her teeth and did her best not to cry out in pain. She silently prayed to God that Mercer would be down shortly; she didn't think she could stand much more of this roughness. No man, no matter how attractive, was worth this.

Making the situation all the worse was the fact that he tasted terrible! He hadn't cleaned his teeth in ages. Of course, what else had she expected of a pirate?

She inhaled sharply as the pirate ground her hips against the wall and clawed her thighs as he pulled her skirt up. She wanted to curse at him, but couldn't – and she knew she couldn't kiss him again, or she might vomit. She turned her head and set her eyes to wandering about the room, desperately taking in every detail she could to distract her from her current situation.

It was then that she noticed the small, broken figure curled in the shadows.

"Oh God," she gasped, unable to keep the horrified cry from escaping. The pirate stopped and turned, looking over his shoulder in confusion.

"Oh," he said, letting her go. "That's… er… what I'm guarding. Promise not to tell anyone she's here?"

All she could do was nod soundlessly. "What… what happened?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"Dunno," the pirate said with a shrug. He stepped a little closer. "Er… hello," he said to Victoria.

It really was quite difficult to guess what had been done to her. But from the way she was huddled in a corner, it seemed like she'd been badly damaged. The pirate knelt on the floor and held out his hand, as though he were trying to coax a small animal out of its hiding place. "You can come out," he said, like he was talking to a little child.

"Cutler?" Victoria's voice was a quivering, shaky thing, weak and frightened as it emerged from the black shadows that hid her.

The pirate looked back at Rosemary with a nervous frown, as though to say, _Help me!_

"He's here, Tori," Rosemary said, hurrying over to her friend with little regard for the pirate's sudden confusion.

"Wait… do you… do you know her?" he asked, suddenly looking suspicious.

Rosemary didn't care. "Come on, Tori, it's me," she said, kneeling on the ground and holding out her hands. "You know I won't hurt you. Come here. Come out."

Victoria stared at her, then whispered hoarsely, "Rose?"

Rosemary nodded, silently praying that Victoria wasn't hurt as badly as she seemed to be.

Victoria hesitantly inched forward, then drew back. "Cutler… is here?" she asked.

"_Yes_, Tori. He's looking for you." She leaned closer. "Come out. I won't hurt you. You know that."

Victoria shivered slightly, but moved forward into the light cast by the candles.

And Rose stumbled backwards with a scream.

* * *

It was a strange sensation, Beckett thought, cold metal piercing through flesh and bone, sliding inside him like some kind of stiff, frigid snake. But it didn't hurt, for whatever reason – probably due to the bright green girdle at his waist, originally the property of the Green Knight that Sir Gawain had faced.

Orson withdrew the sword with a wide grin, laughing maniacally. "There," he cried triumphantly. "_Now_ you can see Victoria – in hell!"

The exclamation confirmed Beckett's fear that the pirate had killed her. Furious, he stepped forward, ignoring the queer sensation of his flesh knitting itself back together around the wound. He glanced down momentarily. There was a bloodstain spread gruesomely across the waistcoat, but no other sign of his wound. His eyes leapt back to Orson's, full of fire and fury. "Where is she?" he demanded.

The blood drained from Orson's face. "But… but I… I just…" he floundered.

"Yes, you stabbed me. Congratulations," Beckett said icily, rubbing a hand over the bloody spot and clinically studying the crimson stain on his fingers when he pulled that hand away. "Unfortunately, your stab was counteracted by the belt of the Green Knight. In case you haven't heard the legends – and I'll assume you haven't – the Green Knight was given the girdle by Morgan le Fay, enemy of King Arthur, as part of an elaborate disguise used to fool King Arthur and his noble knights. It protects from any wound. And, incidentally, that sword was also a pretty little trick of Morgan's – any man who draws the sword from its sheath is cursed for the rest of his life."

"What?" Orson cried, looking even paler. "But – but – Excalibur -!"

"That," Beckett said disdainfully, "Is not Excalibur. Trust me."

Orson's face contorted into a hateful snarl, and he seemed about to attack again (despite the obvious futileness of this action) when shouts and cries began to emerge from the main floor of the inn. The door to the room burst open and a pirate henchman screamed, "The Company! The Company soldiers are here! You have to -!"

Mercer raised his pistol and shot the man dead. Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Orson flung himself across the room past Beckett and Mercer as quickly as he could. He kicked the glass from the window and leapt out before the clerk could grab at him. Mercer cursed and aimed the pistol after the wicked pirate, but every shot he fired missed.

"I think," he said through gritted teeth, "That your sword's curse must not be working."

"It's not _my_ sword anymore, is it, Mercer?" Beckett said in a chilly voice. "Find Rosemary and get out of here. I don't believe… Victoria will be coming with you."

"You think he's killed her, sir?"

"Everything he said implied as much," Beckett said, doing his best to remain detached.

Mercer cast him a sympathetic glance, but moved quickly out the door to pursue Rose.

And Beckett was left alone with his thoughts.

* * *

"Oh… God…" Rosemary gasped out between sobs.

Victoria blinked wide green eyes at her in confusion, but the eyes were the only things that were still hers. Her face – oh, sweet Jesus, her face –

Rosemary fell on her side and was sick on the floor, choking on breath and vomit simultaneously.

Victoria's voice ventured uncertainly into the sudden silence of the room. "Is it… is it that bad?" she asked. She didn't sound frightened, strangely; in fact, her voice nearly bore the same detachment that her husband's often did when he was attempting to distance himself from a difficult matter.

Rosemary couldn't look at her. "Oh, Tori…" she whispered.

The pirate was shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Now, see here," he started, glancing over his shoulder. "I don't… I don't like what Orson did to her. But I can't just allow a spy of Beckett's to escape. You realize that, don't you?"

Rosemary wasn't even listening to him. "How could he do this?" she sobbed. "How could he do this to _you_? He claimed he loved you!"

"He wanted to find the sword," Victoria said simply. "Greed is a dangerous quality in men. And besides," she added bitterly, "He never loved me, no matter what he may have claimed."

"Did you hear me?" the pirate demanded. "I said -!"

A gunshot echoed at exactly that moment, and the pirate fell silent, tumbling forward to the floor as copious amounts of blood began to gush from a bullet wound in his head. Rosemary screamed and leapt away from the dead man, but Victoria merely stared at him.

"Rose?" Mercer's voice called down the stairs. His footsteps followed shortly as he leapt nimbly down the stairs. "Rose, are you -?" He stopped dead at the stair's base, his eyes catching on Victoria. He said nothing, but simply knelt in front of her, cupping her face in his gloved hands and tilting it up to look at him. She met his gaze evenly, but her eyes were full of tears.

"Rose says it's bad," she said quietly. "I haven't seen… what he did. Just… felt it. How awful is it?" More frightened now, she added, "Will Cutler hate me?"

Mercer didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he managed, "It isn't you he'll be hating, milady. He's not so shallow."

Rosemary finally managed to stand, unsteadily and unhappily. "We need to get out of here," she said. "I can hear the Company soldiers upstairs…"

Mercer nodded, scooping Victoria up from the floor as though her weight were nothing to him. "Cat's waiting outside," he said evenly. "I don't suppose you have a cloak with you?"

"I'm afraid not," Rose said, averting her eyes away from Victoria's face. "Do you need one?"

"I think Tori does," he said, using her nickname for the first time in their two-year acquaintance. "I'm… not sure it's wise to let Cat see what happened."

Rosemary looked as though she thoroughly agreed. "Just get in the carriage as quickly as you can," she advised. "I'll make sure Cat… doesn't see. Not yet."

"Where's Cutler?" Momentary panic infused Victoria's voice as she stiffened against Mercer's body.

"He's upstairs with his soldiers," Mercer assured her. "He'll be home later tonight."

"What if Orson comes back for him?" she demanded shrilly.

"I don't think you need to worry," Mercer said, a bit dryly. "Come on, Rose – out the back door. It's down that corridor over there. I'll need you to open the door."

They rushed into the blackness with no light to lead the way, but they found their way out without much difficulty. There were no Company guards in the vicinity of the side door; they were all occupied at the front of the building. However, a lone, dark carriage stood there waiting for them. A young boy appeared to be sitting at the head, holding the reigns of the horses tightly. The boy turned towards them and made to leap down from the head of the coach, but Mercer stopped the small figure with a word.

"No, Cat," he said firmly. "We have to get out of here. _Now_."

She nodded, reluctantly returning to her seat. To her credit, she asked no questions as Rosemary held the door for Mercer and Victoria and then followed them inside. The instant the door was closed, Cat set the carriage careening through the streets of London, past the mob at the front of the _Blind Beggar_ and towards Beckett's mansion on the outskirts of town.


	20. Marks

Beckett didn't return home until nearly one in the morning. Even under normal circumstances this would be a strain for him, but having suffered so difficult a day – one that included ransom; a stabbing; an enormous arrest of literally hundreds of pirates, prostitutes, and the like; and the believed death of his wife – Beckett was on the verge of taking one of his pistols, sticking it in his mouth and blasting his way into eternal rest.

Much to his everlasting gratitude, Mercer was still awake and waiting for him right outside his front door despite the ridiculously chilly weather and the lateness of the hour. "She's dead, isn't she?" Beckett said wearily to his clerk as he dropped onto the front stoop beside him.

"No, she's alive," Mercer said quietly. "She'll survive, unless her wounds are infected with some sort of disease – and we've done our best to prevent that."

"Wounds?" Beckett repeated sharply. "What wounds?"

Mercer heaved a sigh. This was going to be difficult. "Either Orson or Sparrow… did quite a job on her face with a knife," he explained. "There are gashes everywhere. They don't look quite as bad, now they've been cleaned – but they'll leave scars. There are at least thirteen of them. One of them goes back into her hair – it's from her eye to the tip of her ear. There are other cuts, too, all over her body – but the ones on her face…" He shrugged helplessly. "They're the worst," he concluded. "She won't look the same ever again."

Beckett inhaled deeply, trying to calm the anger boiling inside him. "How bad is it?" he asked in a low voice.

Mercer shrugged again. "I like them," he admitted, flushing slightly in embarrassment. "It adds something to her, I think. But I've a strange taste for the slightly sick and very dark. In typical standards of beauty – well, she's… not _beautiful_. Not anymore."

Beckett nodded slowly, turning Mercer's words over in his head. "What do they look like right now? The cuts."

"Red and angry. They'll probably turn white when they heal. As long as she stays out of the sun they won't stand out too much from a distance. But up close, I don't think they'll be avoidable." Mercer twirled a knife between his fingers. "I doubt she'll be wanting to attend social functions anymore," he said. "You know what the other aristocrats will do – they'll play sympathetic to her face – so to speak – and snipe at her behind her back."

Beckett clenched his fists at this thought, an angry glower spreading across his face. "If they insult her, I'll kill them," he snarled. He was silent for a long while; finally, he asked, "Does she want to see me?"

"More than anything. She has moments where she's terrified to let you see what's been done to her, of course, but mostly she wants you. I think she's afraid Orson killed you."

Beckett laughed bitterly. "If only she knew," he said. He sat a moment longer on the stoop, then rose slowly and brushed off his frock coat. "I suppose I ought to go to her, then," he said, turning towards the door.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Mercer asked with a worried frown.

"No," Beckett said absently. "No, I ought to go see her myself. Thank you for the offer." He swung open the door and entered the house, leaving the door hanging open and moving slowly up the stairs, as though he were afraid to see the damage that had been done to his wife.

Mercer watched him, a surprising amount of sympathy on his normally impassive face, and silently hoped his master would be all right…

Victoria was asleep when Beckett entered the guest room in which the servants had put her – the very room she had stayed in when she had first arrived, and in which most of her clothes were still kept. Mary was standing guard, along with Dr. Eddows, who was carefully studying a cut on Victoria's arm. At first, they didn't notice Beckett's presence. When he spoke to them, they nearly jumped in surprise.

"Why did you bring her here?" Beckett asked, his angry voice slashing across the silence.

Mary dropped a frightened curtsy and Dr. Eddows nervously cleared his throat. "The… the damage is… quite extensive, my Lord," he said. "She is not the… er… not the great beauty she once was."

"I am aware of what was done to her, Dr. Eddows," Beckett said coldly. "That does not change the fact that she is still Lady Beckett."

Dr. Eddows cleared his throat again, disbelievingly this time. "Perhaps you would like to look at her before you make such a declaration, sir," he advised.

Beckett's glare was so terrifying that Mary gave a tiny cry and fled the room in a rush, too frightened to face the master of the house in so angry a state. Dr. Eddows backed nervously into a corner and waited for Beckett to approach Victoria.

Beckett walked slowly across the room and circled around the bed in which she lay, bracing himself for the worst. She was lying on her side, her blonde hair as clean and bright as her new white shift, but he could see cuts and bruises all along her shoulders and up her neck. He drew in a deep breath and stepped towards her, his eyes flickering to her face.

The damage was awful and undeniable. The cuts, having been cleaned already, were thin and angry red lines all around her face, making her look somewhat reminiscent of Mercer if he had been a woman. They would leave long, silvery scars all over her skin, and they would destroy the beauty that so many had admired. Beckett studied them without expression, considering them carefully. Long moments dragged painfully by, Dr. Eddows watching him with an uncertain stare. Beckett knew Dr. Eddows wanted to say something, but he didn't feel the need to relieve the doctor's nervousness.

After he had stared at Victoria's face for nearly five minutes, he closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. The wounds were terrible; that was certain. She was no longer beautiful in that picture-perfect way she had been, and that was certainly regrettable – he wouldn't be able to use her to distract business associates or to strike envy in the hearts of his enemies any longer. But for himself… well, he could accept them over time. They would become another part of her face – a mark of all they'd survived together. A mark of the evil of pirates.

He bent and scooped her up from the bed. Even in sleep, she wrapped her arms automatically around his neck and sighed softly, snuggling against him. "Cutler…" she murmured, and he smiled a genuine smile.

"Sir?" Dr. Eddows said in surprise.

"I'm taking her to her proper bedroom," Beckett informed him, shifting her slightly in his arms. "She ought to sleep in her own bed after such a trial. If I need you, Mercer will summon you. You can sleep in here, if you like." With that, he turned and walked out, carefully pushing open the door with his shoulder so as to avoid disturbing Victoria.

Mercer was, unsurprisingly, waiting for him just outside the door. The clerk cast a glance over Victoria's damaged face. "What do you think?" he asked bluntly.

"I can live with it," Beckett said shortly. "I won't be able to use her as I'd originally hoped in regards to business, of course, but I will grow used to the damage over time."

Mercer raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't comment. Instead, he simply held open the door for Beckett as he carried Victoria through the door into their shared quarters. "Do you think she ought to be kept at the house?" Mercer asked as he jogged a little ahead of Beckett and swung open the next door.

Beckett nodded. "I'm going to send her to one of the country houses while she heals," he said. "That way she'll be out of sight from those in London who would be too inquisitive."

"Will you go with her?" Mercer held open the final door for Beckett and watched as the lord laid his lady carefully on the bed.

"No," he said a bit vaguely. "No, I'll stay here. There's too much work to be done for the Company, and with the arrest of all those criminals at the _Beggar_, they'll need me to be present."

"Do you want me to go with her?"

Beckett shook his head. "I need you here, too," he said. "I'll send Dr. Eddows, Oscar, Mary, and Edmond with her. They should be able to care for her well enough."

Mercer closed the door to the bedroom and leaned against it, watching his master carefully. "Victoria may wonder why she's been sent off by herself," he said.

Beckett frowned. "I…" He paused, drew in a deep breath, and started again. "I need some time. That's all. And so does she."

"You won't be able to adjust if you aren't around her," Mercer said quietly.

"Don't question me!" Beckett snarled, turning on Mercer with a furious glare. "I know what needs to be done."

Mercer bowed his head. "I realize that, sir," he said, his tone calm and undisturbed. "My apologies."

Beckett turned away from him in disgust. "Get out," he said, a new chill creeping into his tone.

Mercer turned and left without another word – but his silence screamed of his disapproval.

Beckett exhaled sharply and reluctantly looked to Victoria. The gashes on her face made him wince, but he forced himself to keep looking. _This is what you deserve for letting Orson out, Tori,_ he thought angrily to himself. _This is what you deserve for your love of pirates._

He went to sit on the bed, never allowing his gaze to stray from the wounds. He began to trace the cuts with his eyes, making a mental inventory of them – a short one slashing through her yellow eyebrow; one in a diagonal gash across her forehead; another short one making a small 'x' through the long diagonal cut; a knick right at her hairline; at least three cuts on each cheek, crisscrossing in varied manners; the long cut from her eye to the tip of her ear, the blood cleaned from the hair around it; one from the corner of her left eye to the skin just below her nose; two final slashes from each corner of her lips, crisscrossing at the bottom of her chin. He followed the pattern again, making a maze of it, committing each one to memory, making it an intimate friend.

He remembered her face, fresh and youthful, the first time he'd seen her. He remembered the stormy frown in her eyes as she turned her back on yet another adamant suitor desperate for her attention. He'd wanted to be the one who stole her heart – he'd wanted to walk over to her, capture her attention with a few simple words, dance with her – then leave her hanging. And instead, he'd nearly been slapped in the face, her pale cheeks tinged bright pink with her anger and her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.

It was her face that had drawn his eye, but it was her words that had held his attention. Now it would have be her words that sustained his affection.

Exhaustion overtook him suddenly. In his fear of the damage done to Victoria and his rage at her treatment he had forgotten how long he had been awake, and how much difficult work he had been forced to do today. Quite abruptly, he was on the verge of collapse.

He pulled off his boots and kicked them away from the edge of the bed. He tossed his coat onto the floor beside them, stripped off the waistcoat and did the same with it. Not bothering with the rest of his clothes, he moved to his side of the bed, fell onto it, and was almost instantly asleep.

His night was plagued with dreams of a knife in the dark, and a pattern of scars dancing across a once-beautiful face.

* * *

When Beckett awoke the next morning, he was alone in the bed, but not in the room. Through the haze of sleep he spotted Victoria sitting at a mirror and brushing out her blonde hair. Her back was turned to him as she ran the brush through the golden locks. Still groggy, Beckett sat up, slid out of bed, and went to her – and started when he caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

He saw her set her jaw as she laid the brush on the table – she must have seen his expression. She stiffened, her back stretching and her shoulders rolling tensely back as she pressed her lips into a thin line. "Forgot what I look like now, did you?" she asked, her tone uncharacteristically acerbic.

Beckett frowned at the remark, but made no attempt to move closer. "You can't blame me, can you?" he inquired coldly. "What time is it?"

"I don't know." Victoria refused to look at him, her eyes staring directly into the mirror at her own reflection. "I can leave you, if you like," she said, her voice formal and rigid.

Beckett still didn't move, but he seemed – sadder, at least. "No," he said, the icy tone melting from his voice in a torrent. "I want you here."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Do you?" she said. She rose from the seat and turned to look at him, eyes flicking across his face to take in his expression. He maintained his aristocratic detachment beautifully despite the brief flash of horror that ran through him as he looked directly at her. "Or is it that you pity me?" she asked, now attacking him, probing him for a reaction. "No, of course not," she continued when he didn't respond, eyes narrowed. "You have no pity and no mercy."

"Not for those who did this to you," he said harshly.

That stopped her. Her mouth dropped open a little and her breath came in shallow little gasps. For a moment, Beckett thought she was going to burst into tears, but the feeling passed and the same stony composure overtook her. "It's ugly," she said offhandedly, as though they were talking about a piece of furniture rather than her face.

Beckett didn't see the point in lying. "Yes," he said. "It's a pity. But you'll survive, which is more than I expected."

"And are you happy that I'm alive?" she asked, in the same tone one would use to inquire about another person's day. "I would understand if you wished I wasn't."

Beckett's eyes flickered through the pattern of scars once before he chuckled softly. "I didn't expect you to be so forthright and detached about this," he said.

"You didn't answer my question," Victoria replied evenly.

He studied her carefully, turning the question over in his mind. Was he happy she was alive? Did the injuries inflicted on her change whatever had been between them?

Of course it did. The question wasn't whether it had; it was a matter of _how much_.

"I'm happy you survived," he answered truthfully, "But… you'll forgive me if it is difficult for me to accept the difference in your features."

Her lips twitched into a smile, then fell instantly back into place. "I _will_ forgive you," she said, turning away. "I'll forgive you anything; God only knows why."

That was a comment Beckett hadn't expected. He almost responded, but she cut him off. "I'll even forgive you if you decide the damage done to me is too great, and that you wish to replace me with some other, prettier wench," she said calmly, only a tinge of regret in her voice.

Now _that_ Beckett really hadn't expected. "No," he said fiercely, closing the distance between them so quickly that Victoria jumped in surprise when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back to him. "I don't want that." He stroked her side and said thoughtfully. "I really should leave you, you know – for meddling in my study and releasing Orson. But I must admit, I'm impressed. How you learned what needed to be done to set him free is beyond me."

Victoria flinched. "It was an accident," she sighed. "That pounding… I don't know how he did it, but he had one arm dangling out of… whatever is in that room. And when I stumbled across the password and had the door open, he grabbed my arm… and I unintentionally dragged him out before he pulled me in."

Beckett frowned. "That shouldn't have happened," he said. "How could he have found a way out? Unless the faeries helped him…"

Victoria shrugged. "Perhaps," she said. "It doesn't matter anymore – unless, of course, you're keeping other dangerous criminals in there."

Beckett didn't laugh. "If you'd left well enough alone, a certain other dangerous criminal would _still_ be there," he said severely. "I'd kill you for letting him out, you know – only I believe he's punished you more thoroughly for the crime than I ever could have."

Victoria hung her head, blonde hair falling like a curtain to obscure her face. "Yes, I believe he has," she said. A new, hard edge came into her voice. "I'll kill him if I see him again," she snarled.

Beckett's grip around her waist tightened. "So will I," he said darkly. After a moment, he added, "I don't believe it was an accident."

She sighed. "I didn't think you would," she said regretfully. "But it's the truth, whether you believe it or not. Letting him escape probably wasn't wise on my part, but then, I suppose I was still a little in love with him…"

"Why is it you can love a man who is willing to torture you to get what he wants and not me?" Beckett demanded, anger rising again as he stepped back from her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You don't consider stealing from me my family, my friends, my entire life, a form of torture?" she questioned, arching the wounded eyebrow and grimacing in pain as she remembered the cut.

"If you'd done exactly what I'd told you, you would still be safe and unharmed!" Beckett snapped.

Victoria closed her eyes tightly, plainly forcing herself to remain calm. "I suppose you won't want me to be going out like this," she said, changing the subject.

Beckett shrugged slightly. "You can if you wish," he said slowly, "But I wouldn't advise it – especially not while you're still healing." He paused, then continued, "I'm sending you to the country while you recover. I don't want people prying, stopping by just to gawk at you and mock you when they leave."

"Oh, is that the reason?" Victoria asked, her voice pleasant. Beckett knew that the meaning behind the question, however, wasn't pleasant at all.

"You'll come back in a month or so," he said in an attempt to be reassuring.

"That's very comforting," Victoria said sardonically. "I suppose that shall give you enough time to find yourself a mistress to serve you instead of me, won't it?"

Beckett bristled at this. "You know, all you've wanted from the beginning is to be free of me," he spat. "I expect you should be happy at the notion of being released from your duties to me."

"Oh, I am," she retorted, turning to face him fully with eyes aflame. "I'm _delighted_. I'll pack my things right now. In fact, why don't you just keep me in that little country house so you never have to look at me again?"

"You know," Beckett said callously, "That's not such a bad idea. Why _don't_ you stay there? It'll save me so much trouble, you know; and I won't have to be pretending to appreciate your newfound ugliness, which I'll be glad of."

The Victoria he knew normally would have smacked him for such a remark. Instead, she stared him down with such contempt that he, Cutler Beckett, actually felt _small_ for a moment. "You're pathetic," she said scornfully, turning her back on him and going to the door. "I hope you know that."

She opened the door, exited, and calmly closed it behind her with a soft click, leaving Beckett staring fixedly at the white paint.

* * *

She left before he could make amends to her.

_She must have dressed in record time_, he thought to himself as he looked about her empty bedroom with a blank gaze. _She must have thrown everything into trunks and left as soon as possible._

Something gold sitting on her dressing table caught his eye. He frowned slightly, walked to the table, and picked it up.

It was his ring – the one she had stolen so long ago to keep as a reminder that he would be her husband. It had been carefully set onto the dressing table and left almost directly at its center, right where the sun caught it so it glinted. Right where he would see it, and know what it meant – that she was rescinding her bargain. He did not need to fetch her from the country house – because she had no intention of coming back to be with him.

His hand clenched around the ring, and he felt his own initials being crushed painfully into the flesh of his palm. He glared at his reflection in the mirror, which glared back with an equally frigid gaze, as though to say, _Don't blame me; it's your fault, too_.

Beckett didn't see Mercer, but he sensed the clerk's presence almost instantly. "Why didn't you stop her?" Beckett asked, not turning to look at Mercer.

"You were going to send her away anyway," Mercer said simply. "It's probably better that way."

Beckett's fist curled even tighter about the ring. "You think I should leave her in the country, then?" he asked. "Find myself some pretty little slut and make her my mistress and live that way?"

"I didn't say that." Mercer's voice sounded critical. "I'm sure you'll have more than enough offers if you'd prefer such an arrangement, but I can't imagine that you do, no matter what Victoria looks like now. It was never Victoria's beauty that attracted you."

"It certainly helped," Beckett said wryly, but he turned back to Mercer with a thoughtful frown. "You're right, of course," he said. "The last thing I want is some silly, vapid cow to pretend interest in. It's convincing Victoria of that that's the difficulty."

"Well, you can't blame her for her fears," Mercer said with a slight shrug. "They're perfectly legitimate."

Beckett slowly walked to the guest room bed, neatly made, and dropped onto it, running his hand over the blankets as if Victoria was still lying under them. "I'll wait until she returns at the end of the month," he said finally. "When she comes back –"

"_If_ she comes back," Mercer said, raising an eyebrow.

Beckett glared at him. "_When_ she comes back," he continued nastily, "We'll resolve the argument and move on."

Mercer didn't say anything, but he looked incredulous. Beckett had the urge to throw something at him, much like Victoria used to do – but he restrained himself. "I'm going to my office," he said, standing up. "I trust you'll be out tracking down Orson and Sparrow?"

Mercer nodded. "Of course, sir," he affirmed. "If I find either I'll let you know at once."

"Kill them first," Beckett said harshly. "Or, better yet, bring them to me, so I can do it for you."

"Yes, sir," Mercer said. He bowed gracefully from the room and disappeared down the hall, seeming to be swallowed up by shadows. Shortly, Beckett followed him, the ring still clutched in his fist and his thoughts on vengeance.


	21. In Cold Blood

Victoria spent the vast majority of her first week at her husband's third and most remote country home alone. This was all right as far as she was concerned; she spent much of the time contemplating her face in a small, handheld mirror she had begun to carry with her, learning her scars intimately as they began to heal. When she bathed, she looked over the other scars on her body, too – for they were everywhere. It seemed to her that Orson had left no spot untouched on her body. The very thought of that knife winking cruelly at her through the darkness made her grit her teeth and clench her fists.

She would have vengeance for this – against Orson, against Jack Sparrow, against every man, woman, and child who had ever dared count themselves amongst the motley gang of slime that were pirates.

She knew many such people – indeed, she had a list of them in her journal, a long list of names and addresses. She had kept such a list in earlier times so she could find her friends if ever she were in need of their aid – but they would not have helped her. She understood this with perfect, cool clarity; there was no question in her mind that all pirates were as Orson was – filthy lawbreakers who would stop at nothing to destroy the system upon which all civilized life was founded. The aristocratic pirate lover had become their worst enemy with the swift slice of a cold blade.

The hatred, anger, and shame that mingled inside Victoria hardened her, focused her mind and made her purpose the clearer. She would do everything within her power to help her husband in his planned destruction of the pirates – no matter what he chose to do with her. It was her folly for releasing Orson and Beckett's right to reject her for doing so. In fact, she was certain that during her month of exile Beckett would find himself a lovely little whore to sate his desires every night – and that the month would turn to two, then four, then eight, then twelve…

No matter. Victoria had no guards with her and hence, no one to prevent her from doing as she pleased. She wasn't even important enough to merit Mercer's guardianship any longer, and this sign made clear to her above all others that she was no longer wanted or needed in the Beckett household.

Well, she would make herself needed. She would survive as Lady Beckett, no matter what Orson had done to her face. She would be greater than any insipid, prattling slut that Beckett brought to his bed. She would be worthy of her husband and her title, and Cutler Beckett would know of it… in time.

It was once she had made this decision and begun to plan the way in which she would carry it out, at the end of her second week of banishment, that her greatest enemy arrived on the grounds of her manor to attempt to plead for redemption.

It was not redemption that he would find…

* * *

When Mercer arrived at Beckett's remote country manor, it was nighttime and the start of the third week of Victoria's stay. There had been no report from the household as to Victoria's welfare or how she was healing, and Beckett had grown anxious. Mercer had suspected that Victoria would send no word until Beckett himself asked her to do so, and he also guessed, knowing her stubborn nature, that she wouldn't return without some impressive groveling from her husband.

The notion of that groveling was more than slightly amusing to Mercer; he couldn't quite picture Beckett pleading with Victoria – or with anyone at all. It would be too great a damage to his pride. But Beckett had done the best he could given his nature – he had sent Mercer with a stiff attempt at an apology letter and orders to bring Victoria back to London, whether she agreed or not.

It had, in all actuality, been over a month since Victoria's departure; it took two weeks to reach the manor by carriage, a little less for a man on horseback with few belongings to carry with him. It was for this reason that Beckett had begun to fret a little about Victoria's return; apparently he had forgotten that the trip was not short and that he had advised Victoria to stay at the house for a month, disregarding travel entirely. Mercer had reminded him of these two points, but it had done little to ease Beckett's frame of mind.

So Mercer had left, and he had nearly ridden his horse to death to get to the manor in a timely fashion. And now it was a bitterly cold night, and the doors to the manor were locked tightly.

Locked doors, of course, had long ago ceased to be a problem for Mercer. He had been picking locks and stealing quietly into houses since he was a small boy. He neatly scaled the high fence surrounding the manor, landed easily on the ground on the opposite side, and strode calmly towards the house. He leapt up the stairs in long-legged stride and prepared to kneel before the lock – but stopped dead.

The door was already open.

Mercer frowned. At this late hour the doors should have been locked and the servants should have been away to bed. Oscar's carelessness would have surprised Mercer, if he had believed Oscar was responsible; he had never known the old man, strange though he was, to leave doors open. But no, it couldn't be Oscar's fault; the old man was too good at what he did for that. No, somebody who did not belong in the house had broken in, and was currently wandering about inside the place, unnoticed and unhindered.

_Well, milady, aren't you lucky I found my way here in time to save you yet again?_ Mercer thought with a touch of irritation as he quietly opened the door and slipped like a shadow inside. He left the door cracked a bit, lest the intruder should happen to sneak out while Mercer was ensuring that Victoria was safe; the interloper would never suspect that his or her presence had been noticed.

Mercer moved swiftly and silently up the stairs, finding Victoria the primary goal in his mind. It didn't take him long; when he reached the landing to the second floor of the house, he spotted an open door with flickering lamplight spilling across the corridor floor. Normally that room would be Beckett's office – even when he purposely went out of his way to escape the stress of his life, he brought his work with him – but now, Mercer guessed, Victoria was using it for a writing study or something of that variety. Perhaps she simply missed her lord and husband?

As Mercer treaded slowly down the hall, he heard low voices conversing – both of them recognizable. He hid himself in the shadows by the door and peered in to confirm his guess, and it soon appeared he was correct; Victoria was seated at Beckett's desk, fully dressed and glaring sternly across the rich mahogany wood at the trespasser into her home. She sat stiffly, her chin held proudly, her demeanor that of a queen sitting in her throne – rather than that of a young, scarred woman sitting in her undergarments in a comfortable desk chair. She was _dignified_ – so much so that almost any man who would have stepped in her presence would have felt inferior.

Certainly it seemed that Orson, the miserable intruder who was shakily pointing a gun at Victoria's head, was feeling intimidated – he couldn't even look at her. Of course, this might well have been due to the slowly forming scars now crossing all over her face...

"Listen, love," he said, his voice trembling, "I just… I came here to apologize."

"Did you now?" Victoria said disdainfully. "Is that why you're pointing a gun at me, darling?"

The endearment held no affection, and Orson plainly realized it. "I don't… I wanted you to hear me out," he said, shifting his weight to his left foot. "I knew you'd call for Mercer or the like if I didn't come armed."

"How prepared of you," Victoria replied, lip curling slightly. "Fortunately for you, Mercer is not present."

That seemed to relieve the pirate. "Well then," he said, letting his arm drop limply to his side. "I'll just set this aside."

"Better yet," Victoria said, lifting her hand from the arm of the chair and holding it out to him, "Give it to me."

Orson stared at her in disbelief, then laughed. "No, love," he said in amusement, "I ain't stupid."

"The fact that you are here would suggest otherwise," Victoria said deprecatingly. "Give me the gun."

Orson was plainly unnerved by the coolness with which she handled herself. "He taught you well, didn't he?" he said nastily, eyes narrowing at her as he blustered. He set the gun down on the desk in a conciliatory gesture – however foolish it must have seemed to him. "The little bastard taught you how to play the perfect, cold-blooded noble. But no matter. I know what you're really like, deep inside."

"Trust me, Orson; you've no idea what I'm like any longer," she said, her voice chilly. "Tell me what you're doing here."

Orson chewed his bottom lip. "I… er… came to apologize," he said, tugging at his dark brown hair. "For what Jack Sparrow did. To your face, I mean."

Victoria's eyes narrowed. "Jack Sparrow?"

Mercer leaned in, agreeing entirely with her incredulous tone.

Orson looked genuinely confused. "Yeah, Jack," he said. "Don't you remember? It was him what did that number on your face, love. Who'd you think did it? _Me?_" Suddenly he looked horrified. "Surely you don't believe _I'd_ do such a thing!"

"I'd believe you capable of anything," Victoria said furiously, but she remained neatly seated in the chair. "And I most certainly believe you're capable of lying to me. Jack didn't do this to me."

"You were delirious," Orson pointed out. "How would you remember?"

"I'd remember," Victoria said, but she sounded a little doubtful.

Orson noted the uncertainty and pounced on it with glee. "Please, Tori, you know I cared about you once," he said, coming to sit right in front of her on the edge of the desk – but though he was looking at her, his glance continued to flicker between her face and the back wall in quick, frightened flashes. "How could I hurt someone I loved so much?"

"My question exactly," Victoria said icily – and suddenly, the gun seemed to leap into her hand from the top of the desk. She set it in a relaxed and jaunty manner against Orson's forehead, a cruel smirk tugging at her lips. "So, tell me, my dearest – how _could_ you hurt someone you loved so much? Even if it wasn't you who handled the knife, you did nothing to stop your accomplice."

"It wasn't my idea!" Orson said desperately, holding up his hands. "Come on, Tori, you know you can't do this."

"Can't I?" Her voice was hard as stone and sharp as steel. "Where does your wife live, Orson?"

"What?" Orson said in surprise.

Victoria cocked the gun, the clicking noise echoing eerily in the nearly empty house. "Jane Thrush Shaw," she repeated, her gaze merciless and unwavering. "Where does she live?"

Orson swallowed, eyes wide with fright. "Three blocks away from the _Beggar_," he said nervously. "Second house on the left, corner of Jacqueline and James streets."

"Mmm." The gun wasn't lowered. "Where are Tyris Burton and his pirate crew off to?"

"India," Orson answered hurriedly. "They hear there's some great treasures there – there's some object that turns everything it touches to gold, supposedly, and a cave of full of gold guarded by a legendary goddess. They're going to India to see if they can track the cave. No one knows where it is except its Guardians, y'see."

"Interesting," Victoria murmured, a small crease appearing between her brows and the flesh around the scars tightening and tugging to accommodate for them. "India, you say?"

"There's an informer there," Orson rushed to explain. "Somewhere in Delhi, I think. Will you put the gun down now?"

"No," Victoria said calmly. "Where is Jack Sparrow?"

"Before Beckett arrived he slipped off to get his ship back from Davy Jones," Orson supplied, sweating profusely now. "I don't know when he'll be back."

Victoria nodded imperceptibly. "Your wife, Orson," she said slowly. "Did you love her?"

Orson shrugged. "Not really," he admitted. "I loved you more."

"You'll forgive me if I don't find that comforting," Victoria said wryly. "Did she love you, I wonder?"

"I doubt it," Orson snorted. "We only got along in bed, you understand; married because I got her with child. But we hardly see each other. We don't speak much."

"Then you won't be missed," Victoria said flatly. "Good-bye, Orson."

His eyes widened. "Tori -!"

The gunshot exploded in the quiet of the house as Orson's head did similarly, blood and brains bursting from him in a shower of red. Orson's dead body fell forward, blood dripping onto Victoria's white undergarments and staining them with crimson. Victoria pushed the dead body off as though he was merely a small, annoying pet that had leapt onto her lap despite knowing that it shouldn't. She stepped over the corpse, wiping the soft dots of blood from her face with one white sleeve and ignoring the bright splash of red left there.

When she looked up, her cold green eyes finally met Mercer's as he gaped at her in disbelief. To his continued astonishment, she grinned at him. "What?" she asked cheerfully. "Surely you've seen any number of such gruesome sights in your life."

"Oh, yes," Mercer said, stepping into the room and still staring at her in amazement. "But I never expected to see you murdering so recklessly. Incidentally, milady, you may want to find someplace more secluded next time if you're going to choose to shoot your victim."

"I'll keep that in mind," Victoria said evenly as Mary, Oscar, and Dr. Eddows came running down the hall.

Mercer leapt forward, snatched the gun from Victoria's hand, and turned to block the door from the three servants' view.

"Mr. Mercer!" Dr. Eddows cried, stopping and pressing a hand to his chest as though he was about to have a heart attack. "I – I didn't realize you were – what's happened?"

"I traced Orson to the house," Mercer said calmly, slipping the gun into his belt. "I followed him here and killed him when I saw that he was attempting to injure Lady Beckett."

"My God!" Dr. Eddows exclaimed as Mary gave a cry of horror. "Is the poor girl all right?"

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about her," Mercer said dryly. "It's not a very pretty sight in there; I suggest you return to bed at once – _all of you_ – and leave the mess to me."

They seemed more than happy to leave this unpleasant task to him. "If you insist," Oscar said, none too reluctantly. "Will Lady Beckett need to be escorted back to her room?"

"No," Mercer said, glancing over his shoulder at the bloody Victoria. "No, I'll get her back to bed. She'll be fine, don't worry."

The trio bowed simultaneously and hurried away, anxious to avoid seeing whatever gruesomeness was contained in the room. Mercer waited until he heard all three doors closed, then turned back to Victoria. "Well, milady," he said, pulling the gun from his belt and handing it to her, "Would you like me to show you the best ways to hide the bodies of your victims?"

Victoria smiled grimly. "Please," she said.

Mercer studied her momentarily, then shook his head. "Then again," he said, "Perhaps you'd better leave the killing to me next time. It's what your husband does."

Victoria turned, sailed gracefully behind the desk, and dragged Orson's body to the front of the room, grunting and struggling the entire way. "I," she said, huffing as dropped the body in front of Mercer, "Am not my husband."

Mercer stared at her, still almost unable to comprehend the change that had occurred in her. Finally, he managed, "Actually, you may not be so different as you'd like to think…"

And at that, Victoria smiled serenely.

* * *

Victoria didn't read Beckett's letter to her until breakfast the next morning. In all the excitement of the previous night Mercer had quite forgotten to give it to her, and besides he had doubted she would be in the mood to read whatever it was her husband had to say to her after killing her former lover.

That morning showed her to be in considerably high spirits, however, and so Mercer handed over the letter as she sat at the breakfast table, sipping tea and calmly eating toast. "Lord Beckett sent this with me for you," he said, setting the letter beside her plate.

Victoria glanced at it from the corner of her eye, as though it wasn't quite worthy of her full attention, but she neatly set down her slice of toast, delicately wiped her fingers, and lifted the letter from the table. She opened the heavy envelope in which it was enclosed and removed the parchment, unfolding it and tracing her husband's handwriting with softening eyes.

The letter was simple and to the point, as emotional as Beckett ever behaved:

_My Lady Victoria,_

_Rumor has it that country air can do wonders for the gravely ill, but I imagine you've had quite enough of it by now. London misses your scathing wit and nasty remarks on its pomposity. Come home with Mercer as soon as you can be packed and ready to leave._

_Lord Cutler Beckett_

"Hmmph," Victoria said, folding the letter and tossing it onto the table as though insulted. "He didn't even sign it as a lover should." Despite her angry manner she was flushing a little with triumph and happiness.

Mercer chuckled. "Surely you didn't expect him to deliver some sort of flowery poem to you," he said.

"He quoted poetry when we were courting," Victoria pointed out a bit petulantly.

"Yes, well, he doesn't need to woo you now, does he?" Mercer said, rolling his eyes. "He's already got you, so what would the point be?"

Victoria frowned, the scars on her face stretching slightly as she did so. "He wants me to come back, doesn't he?" she asked. "He should try to be a little more flowery if he intends to endear me to him. I'm rather surprised he wants me to return anyhow. I'd assumed he would have taken up with Charlotta Harris or some other such wench."

Mercer choked on the coffee he'd been ponderously sipping at that. "Charlotta Harris?" he repeated in revulsion. "You know he can't stand that whore!"

Victoria smiled widely at that; Mercer watched how the scars on her chin stretched while the ones on her cheeks crinkled, lines wriggling up them as they grew smaller and fatter. "She's prettier to look at than I am," she said, the smile fading as quickly as it had appeared.

Mercer snorted. "That's ruined as soon as she opens her mouth," he said. "Really, I don't think you need to worry. Miss Harris was certainly avid in her attempts to reclaim Beckett's attentions while you were absent, and her mother only made it worse, of course. Charlotta followed Beckett everywhere at every single social function he happened to appear at. Eventually he got so annoyed with her that he told her, in front of at least half of the guests at Rosemary's engagement party, to go to hell."

"Rosemary's _what?_" Victoria repeated, jaw dropping.

Mercer looked at her in mock abashment. "Oh, did I forget to mention?" he said. "Miss Wellington has finally been tamed by Lord Presbery. Duke Lawless wasn't too pleased, I can tell you that much."

"I'm sure that made both you and Beckett happy," Victoria said with a slight roll of her eyes. "You have no reason to be fond of him, after all."

A dark frown flitted across Mercer's face. "I despise that man," he growled.

"I don't blame you," Victoria replied evenly. "I despise him, too, and I wasn't even involved in what occurred."

Mercer continued to look unhappy. Finally, he said, "Beckett found Perthina's journal two weeks ago. She'd hidden it at my house under a floorboard. One of the servants stepped right through the damn thing and broke his ankle. When Beckett went to look at the board, he spotted the journal hidden there."

Victoria cast Mercer a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "It must have been difficult for you."

Mercer looked away. "She talks about Lawless in a few of the entries," he said.

"And that," Victoria said with a wince, "Must have been hard for Beckett."

"Lawless raped her, Tori." He said it in a dead tone, but the very deadness told Victoria how deeply this discovery had shaken him. "He raped her, threatened to kill me if she told, then lied about what happened to bring Beckett down a notch or two."

All the scars on Victoria's face suddenly seemed to pop out as her skin turned an angry shade of her red. Her eyes narrowed furiously, and her hands clenched into fists. "How is Cutler?" she asked, her voice soft, but her eyes still full of rage.

"He's all right. He has you to replace her, after all." Mercer's voice was full of bitterness now. "But she was my sister. I have no one."

"Cat?"

"Haven't seen her since you left. She told me she'd come back to the house the following night, but she never returned. I don't want to be discovered by going to visit her, so I just… stay away. Nobody's seen her, actually."

Victoria frowned. "That's not like her," she said. "Are you worried?"

"I'm sure she's fine," Mercer said, his voice tinged with resentment. "She's probably just laying low for awhile before coming back out into society and attaching herself to some vastly wealthy and ridiculously priggish noble."

"She's not like that, Mercer," Victoria said sharply. "You know that."

"Obviously I can't know anything about anyone except myself," Mercer replied angrily. "Lawless is a rapist and a liar; my sister was an innocent martyr; and you, of all people, are a cold-blooded murderess who plans to kill vast numbers of pirates in order to regain favor that was never lost with your husband."

"You found and read my entire journal already?" Victoria quirked a brow at him. "Most impressive, Mr. Mercer. Bra-_vo_." She clapped her hands in a bored manner. "A lot of things changed after Orson – or Jack – or whoever the hell did this – tortured me," she said, serious now. "Lest you hadn't noticed, I am now completely and utterly against anything having remotely to do with piracy."

"Beckett will be pleased," Mercer remarked. "Though I'm not certain how he'll feel about this new murderous side."

"Oh, I imagine he'll find it quite exciting," Victoria said, lifting her toast to her lips again. "Of course, I'll have to agree to return to him before he can see it and judge."

Mercer grinned impishly at that. "If you opt not to go back," he warned, "I've been given permission to tie you up, toss you over my shoulder, and carry you into London kicking and screaming."

Victoria pursed her lips. "My husband, the gentleman," she said sardonically. "Very well; if it pleases my Lord, then it shall please his lady as well."

Mercer laughed at that. "I wonder how long _that_ attitude will reign supreme," he said mockingly.

"Mercer," Victoria said, calmly taking a sip of her tea, "Don't make me throw this teacup at you."

Mercer snorted incredulously, as though he didn't believe she'd dare do such a thing – but he took several precautionary steps back. "Beckett wouldn't be very pleased with you if you broke one of his teacups," he said.

"Oh, well, in that case…" Victoria finished the dregs of her tea, turned, and hurled the cup across the room at Mercer. He coolly raised a hand, caught the flying cup in a swift snap of his fingers, and set it easily on the table. He smirked at the expression of astonishment on Victoria's face, looking rather impressed with himself. Victoria gaped at him several moments longer, then finally managed, "Nice catch."

"Why, thank you, milady," Mercer beamed. "I thought I ought to start learning how to catch every physical object you send hurtling in my direction – since you have a terrible habit of throwing things at me. Tsk, tsk. Such unladylike behavior."

Victoria smiled serenely as she took another bite of her toast and said to him, "At least you know that some things will never change."


	22. Lawless

**A/N: Before we start, I have to forewarn you that a) the next chapter hasn't been written yet and b) I will be gone next week and so won't be updating anyway. So, this will be the last chapter for at least two weeks. Thanks, and enjoy!**

* * *

With two weeks passing and no word from Victoria or Mercer, Beckett was beginning to grow immensely irritable. The Company underlings working for him were the ones who received the brunt of his fury, being sent on strange and impossible errands at ridiculous hours of the night and then suffering the worst berating imaginable when they returned empty-handed.

Making his mood the worse was the fact that no one – not even Mercer – had been able to track down either Orson or Jack Sparrow. Mercer had followed a trail of clues as to Orson's whereabouts – the man had fallen on hard times, it seemed (due, Beckett thought with considerable smugness, to the curse of the sword.)

First, Orson's wife finally heard about his lengthy affair with Victoria and, furious, had ordered him never to return. Not only that; apparently the woman had also been sleeping with Tyris Burton, captain of the pirate ship _Redemption_ on which Orson had previously been a sailor. He was no longer a member of the _Redemption_'s crew, as Tyris had found Victoria's torture morally repugnant and had set sail without Orson the night of the fateful ransoming. Left alone and penniless, Orson had planned on making a living through thievery, but he had been caught at his first attempt and severely beaten.

The streak of bad luck had continued, but the details of Orson's misery hardly brought Beckett pleasure anymore. His conspicuous absence was driving Beckett mad, and no matter how much Mercer had questioned his sources (the prostitute Damarah Stovall being one), he had not been able to discover the pirate's whereabouts.

Beckett's situation, he often felt, was not much better than Orson's. Charlotta Harris had determined that, if she couldn't become his wife, she would at least become his mistress, and had firmly attached herself to him as though she was a leech. Even after his explosive outburst at Rosemary's engagement celebration (which he had not expected to be invited to in the first place and which he certainly hadn't wished to attend), she still clung to him as though she was drowning and he was the only thing that could keep her afloat.

Lord Harris plainly disapproved of his daughter's behavior and frequently apologized to Beckett whenever they crossed paths. Lord Harris was a sentimental and easily swayed man with too generous a disposition, and he had little to no control over his wife or daughter's actions. Hence, Charlotta flirted and clung and prattled as much as she wished despite her father's angry glares. Lady Harris was quick to encourage this behavior and was even quicker to remark to Beckett on the general splendor of her daughter's looks and character. Beckett felt that, if he had to encounter the Harris family one more time, he would lose all self control and kill them with his bare hands.

Charlotta's best friend, Emma Clark, had also joined forces with the two scheming Harris ladies, spreading vindictive and terrible rumors about Victoria – claiming that Beckett was merely protecting her from society's eyes while she had a wild and impassioned affair with the infamous French pirate Captain Chevalle. Beckett always refuted the rumor by saying Victoria was simply visiting the countryside when questioned about it, but Emma was insistent, and anyway her story was far more exciting than Beckett's.

So most of the aristocracy was inclined to believe his wife was off gallivanting with pirates, and an idiotic noble's daughter was attempting to become his mistress. Beckett was beginning to doubt whether his wealth, fame, and position were worth all this.

He was sitting in his office at the Company's headquarters pondering all of this on a Wednesday afternoon when none other than Charlotta Harris and Emma Clark were escorted into the room. "They insisted on seeing you, sir," the guard said apologetically; apparently he knew how great Beckett's dislike for the duo was.

"I _hate _Wednesdays," Beckett growled under his breath.

He glowered at the giggling pair now standing before him. If Mercer had been there, they would never have gotten into the room – but no, Mercer had apparently seen fit to disappear without a trace into the countryside along with Victoria. If Beckett hadn't known better, he would have thought they were having an affair. "What do you want?" he demanded none-too-kindly of the pair before him.

Charlotta smiled and batted her eyelashes prettily. "We were out for a walk," she said sweetly, "And thought we might drop by to see how you were. It must be lonely without your wife about."

"I manage," Beckett said calmly. "She's due back any day now, you know."

"Is she?" Emma sounded faintly amused, as though she thought it adorable that Beckett was so firmly convinced his wife was returning at all. "I'm certain we'll all be delighted to see her again."

"I'm certain she won't be particularly delighted to see _you_," Beckett said coldly, "And quite frankly, I can't blame her. I'm a bit busy at the moment, if you don't mind, ladies. And anyway, it's more than slightly inappropriate for you to be visiting a married man without a chaperone."

"Surely you don't have dangerous intentions towards us, my Lord?" Charlotta said with a suggestive look.

"Do you count strangulation as a dangerous intention?" he muttered as he bent to lift a fallen piece of parchment from the floor. "Why don't you run along and find some better way to entertain yourselves? Surely there's something vastly more amusing for silly girls like yourselves to do in the city of London."

Charlotta pouted; most men probably would have crumbled before that pout, but Beckett was entirely uninterested. Seeing this, Charlotta moved back to her flirtatious behavior. "You'll find, Lord Beckett, that I'm not just a silly girl," she said huskily, laying her hand on the desk quite near to his.

He looked up at her with an incredulous gaze. "What _have_ you been doing in your spare time, Miss Harris?" he asked with mock disapproval. "Spending time with the bawds in Covent Gardens? For shame."

Finally Charlotta looked insulted. "Lord Beckett, I am a noblewoman and well behaved; I don't spend time with such lowlifes – unlike your wife!" she said, affronted.

That set Beckett over the edge. He slammed his quill onto the desk and stood, glaring at Charlotta with such fury that both she and Emma scrambled backwards across the room, their eyes wide with horror. "You know _nothing_ about Victoria!" he said furiously. "So don't you _dare_ pretend that you are her better. I chose her over you for a reason – a concept that you can't quite seem to grasp."

Charlotta was flushing angrily now. "Lord Beckett," she said, trying to control the shaking in her voice, "Although it is… valiant of you to defend your wife, Victoria has plainly abandoned you and left you in London alone."

Beckett's expression didn't change, but the words were his worst fear confirmed aloud. He would have thrown them from the room right then – if a familiar voice hadn't interrupted.

"Slander and calumny, Miss Harris," someone said from the door. "Taking an excursion to the countryside can hardly qualify as abandonment."

"Tori!" Beckett momentarily lost his composure, smiling widely. "You're back!"

Victoria entered the room in a soft shuffle of fabric, a cloak pulled all around her and shielding her face from view. "Of course I am," she said. "Staying alone in that country house is very… well, lonely."

Mercer trailed in after her, smiling and nodding to Beckett. The smile evaporated when he spotted Charlotta and Emma. "You can't be in here," he told them. "This is Company headquarters; only Company workers allowed."

Charlotta pointed sulkily at Victoria. "_She's_ here," she said petulantly.

"Yes," Mercer said, raising his eyebrows, "And _she_ is the chairman's wife. When last I looked, Lord Harris had no affiliation with the Company. Unless you eloped in the time I was gone – which I wouldn't put past you – you're obviously not related to the Company in any way." He leaned towards them threatening, eyes narrowing. "So _get out_," he growled.

Both girls uttered short, undignified screams and ran out of the office, leaving the remaining trio behind. Mercer chuckled darkly as he turned back to Beckett, smirking triumphantly. "I brought her back," he said, motioning to Victoria.

"Yes; thank you, Mercer," Beckett said with a short nod – but he was staring in Victoria's direction. "I hope it didn't take too much convincing."

"Not as much as I was prepared for," Mercer chuckled. He nodded respectfully in Victoria's direction and said, "Victoria has something to tell you about Orson. I'll leave you alone now."

"Thank you," Beckett said absently as Mercer turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Silence hung between Lord and Lady Beckett for a long moment. Finally, Beckett said, "Let me see them."

Obediently, Victoria pushed the large and protective hood back from her face, steadily facing him. Beckett's eyes automatically traced the pattern of scars, now silvery white against her pale flesh. They were hard to see from all the way across the room, so he came out from behind his desk and walked towards her slowly. The scars became plainer the closer he got, bright white lines frozen on her face. They lent a certain tragedy to her features, a bizarre ugliness so strange it was almost beautiful. When he was only a few paces away from her, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers over each scar.

Victoria closed her eyes at the surprisingly tender touch. Still with her eyes closed, she said softly, "Orson is dead. I killed him."

His hand froze on her chin. "You killed him?" he repeated.

Her eyes fluttered open – hard, cold, brilliantly green. "Yes," she said evenly. "I shot him. He came to apologize, fool that he was. Incidentally, I actually missed you a little while I was gone."

Beckett blinked, frowning slightly at the subject change. "I take it you don't regret killing him," he said, ignoring her last remark.

Her eyes narrowed. "The only thing I regret," she said pitilessly, "Is that I ever was naïve enough to love him." She shook her head slightly as though to clear the thought and continued, "It was the strangest thing – missing you, I mean. I don't know what caused it. Probably because I had nobody worth talking to until Mercer arrived. Oscar is at least decent for conversation but there's so much he doesn't understand. I'm sorry about Perthina, by the way. Mercer told me."

"Thank you," Beckett said, a little dazed at the torrent of words rushing from her mouth. Actually, he realized, she looked a little nervous. Was she afraid of his reaction to her face – to her presence here?

"I know Jack Sparrow's gone from the country," she continued, switching to some information she thought Beckett might find valuable. "I couldn't discover when he'd be returning or exactly where he'd gone. I did, however, learn of the location of Tyris Burton, which I thought might interest you. He's –"

"Tori," Beckett said, slightly exasperated and slightly amused, "Shut it, will you?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Oh, so you _don't_ want my help?" she said sardonically. "Well, then, I'll just be off –"

Beckett caught her arm as she turned to leave and pulled her back, tilting her chin up and kissing her. When he pulled back and saw her staring at him in astonishment, he smirked. The smile faded slightly as his eyes quickly flickered through the scars again. "You've changed," he said quietly. "You betray pirates to me; you kill former lovers without regretting it. If I didn't know better, I'd think you might become my best agent yet."

She smiled, a little bitterly. "Maybe I will," she said. "When I was imprisoned with Orson, something kept running through my mind - the line you quoted from _Paradise Lost;_ remember? 'So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse; all good to me is lost –"

"—'Evil be thou my good,'" Beckett finished. "A little dark for my normally light-hearted wife."

She looked away. "Your normally light-hearted wife doesn't exist anymore," she said. "She lost hope; then fear, then remorse… you know the rest"

He touched her face. "All too well," he said. "Interesting." A brief pause; then, "Please attempt not to lose all vestiges of the old Victoria, if you will. I'll be ridiculously bored if you suddenly see fit to stop resisting me."

At that Victoria laughed. "Oh, you needn't be concerned," she said. "I still have every intention of keeping you on your toes."

"God save me," Beckett sighed.

They were silent a moment. Then, Victoria said, "I think I ought to be seen by the aristocracy."

Beckett raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Are you entirely prepared for that?" he asked.

"I don't need their approval," she said disdainfully. "I'd be more concerned for your own reputation, were I you; you can't exactly show off your pretty little wife anymore to make men envious."

"I accepted that a long time ago," Beckett told her dismissively. "Why do you want to be seen?"

She turned her eyes to his. "It will be easier for you to lead an enormous uprising against the pirates if you have the sympathy of the nobles," she said. "And when they see what's been done to me – well, it could have been any of them. That pirates would attack someone of their class will frighten them, and you can use that fear to your advantage."

Beckett studied her carefully, then chuckled mirthlessly. "My God," he said disbelieving, "You're every inch as calculating and manipulative as me. Who knew beneath your childish and naïve exterior there was a businesswoman in the making?"

She smiled. "Apparently you did," she said. "You would never have so ruthlessly chased after me unless you knew I had something to offer you."

"Besides the continuing entertainment of breaking your defiant soul?" Beckett said seriously. "I suppose you may be right about that. As per your idea of revealing what's been done to you to the aristocracy… I'll think about it."

She nodded slowly, then glanced up. "You'll be… all right about _this_, won't you?" She motioned to her face with one hand, her elaborate wedding ring flashing brightly in the sun as she did so.

He nodded. "It won't be an issue… especially if the only other options I have are prattling and idle gossipers like Miss Harris and company." Here he winced slightly, as though merely thinking about them caused him pain.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of Charlotta and company," she said, a hint of jealousy coming into her voice, "What exactly were they doing here?"

"I've no idea," Beckett said irritably. "They saw fit to interrupt me in the midst of my work in a rather pathetic attempt at seduction. It's amazing how much more desirable you were even though you consistently insulted, rejected, and abused me."

"I think I had my fair share of the abuse," she replied with a huff.

"Do you, now?" Beckett said a bit indignantly. "I don't think so, my Lady. I suffered far more insult than you did, even when I _was_ acting the part of a gentleman."

"Oh? And when was that?" Victoria asked scornfully. "I can recollect no time when you behaved like a gentleman at all."

"The first night I met you, or, if you wish to count our first meeting as that dinner when you were eleven, the first night I was reacquainted with you."

"All right," Victoria conceded. "The first night, and never after."

There was another pause. "I hear Rose is engaged," she said, raising her eyes curiously to his.

Beckett sighed. "Yes, well, she isn't the only one," he said darkly.

Victoria frowned. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Beckett glanced at the door, then seemed about to reply – but Mercer entered the room. "It's late, sir," he said with a small incline of his head. "I thought perhaps you'd like to be going home – what with the return of your wife and all that."

"Of course," Beckett nodded. "We'll be out in a moment."

Mercer slipped out silently, and Victoria turned back to Beckett. "Cutler, what happened?" she asked worriedly.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. "I'll tell you later," he said quietly. "Let's go home and discuss it there. Apparently we have a good deal to talk about, anyway."

Victoria nodded slightly, then lifted the hood of her cloak and hid her face from the world.

* * *

Dinner was a rather elaborate affair that night in the Beckett household. Every servant possible attempted to enter the room at least once during the night to get a glimpse of Victoria's damaged face, so it seemed that the same person never served them twice. Besides that, Beckett wanted the dinner to be special as it was her first meal after her return home, so everything the servants had originally made had been tossed out and redone.

Over dinner, whenever servants weren't present in the room, Victoria described Orson's death in gory detail and related all the information he had given her, particularly in regards to the location of Tyris Burton and his crew. "Thinking back on it," she said when she was sure all the servants had left the room again, "It would have been smart to find out exactly what sort of treasure they were after and who the informant they were meeting was, but, quite frankly, I wasn't really thinking rationally at that moment."

"I'm impressed you paused long enough to ask him any questions at all," Mercer interjected. "I would have shot him on sight if I was you."

"Be that as it may," Beckett said, "We've still gained some valuable information from him, and we can use it to our advantage. Tyris Burton is the captain of which ship, Tori?"

"The _Redemption_," Victoria supplied.

Beckett snorted. "What an entirely unsuitable name," he said contemptuously. "Do you have any idea what sort of treasure they're after?"

"Not the faintest," Victoria said apologetically. "Frankly I'm not certain Orson knew himself. Tyris didn't seem particularly fond of Orson."

"I imagine he wasn't," Beckett said in amusement. "He's been bedding Orson's wife for a good three years now, apparently."

The irony made Victoria laugh mirthlessly. "Well, I guess Orson's crime against his wife isn't such an evil, then, is it?" she said. "Against me, on the other hand…"

"I believe you punished him quite thoroughly enough for what he did," Beckett said, composedly taking a sip of his wine. "Though I might have liked to see him tortured at least a little for your sake."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Victoria said, raising her own glass to her husband, "And I can't say I would have minded myself. But he's dead now, so he's no trouble of ours any longer."

"Jack Sparrow, on the other hand…" Mercer said darkly.

Victoria set down her glass, frowning. "I can't imagine what Orson said is true, Mercer," she said to the clerk. "Jack told Orson he was leaving when I was first their prisoner. He wouldn't have stayed just to torture me."

"I thought you weren't defending pirates any longer," Mercer said, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not defending them in general," Victoria snapped, "Just Sparrow, because I believe him guiltless of harming me – if not of piracy."

Beckett held up one hand to halt the argument. "What's this about?" he asked.

Before Victoria could silence him, Mercer revealed, "According to Orson, it was Jack Sparrow who did the knife work on your charming wife's face."

"Cutler," Victoria said hurriedly, seeing fury flare up in his eyes, "Orson would have said anything to make me forgive him. I don't believe a word of it. Besides, Orson had the knife the night you rescued me – not Jack."

"Jack left that night, according to Orson," Mercer pointed out.

"And you seriously think they would have traded knives?" Victoria asked incredulously. "For God's sake, gentlemen, be reasonable!"

"Jack Sparrow," Beckett said harshly, "Is a traitor, a thief, and a liar. I know by experience. I believe him entirely capable of tormenting you, just for the pleasure of knowing he had hurt me in the process."

"I don't think he'd go so far out of vengeance," Victoria said certainly. "And anyway, as I said before, Jack left the first night of my capture – not the night of my rescue." She glanced curiously at her husband. "You know, Cutler, you never told me your connection with him," she said.

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "He was one of my more promising merchants a few years ago," he said darkly, "Until he saw fit to dump his cargo and run. He stole the fastest ship on the ocean – the _Wicked Wench_ – and made it into a pirate ship. I had the ship set aflame on the ocean, and Jack was branded as a pirate."

"Literally," Mercer added with considerable glee.

Victoria winced a little at that, but she wasn't nearly so horrified as Beckett might have expected. "Why would he dump his cargo?" she asked. "That doesn't seem like him."

"I'm sure I have no idea," Beckett said irritably.

Mercer looked as though he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut. Victoria let the subject drop, but determined that Mercer was to be asked about it later. "Well, whatever Jack has done in the past, I still don't believe him capable of slashing open my face with a knife. The mere thought of such an act would be repulsive to him. I could see _you_ doing it," she said to Mercer, a bit reproachfully, "But Jack's not like you."

"I wouldn't do something like that to you," Mercer said indignantly.

"What about Charlotta Harris?" Victoria questioned. "Or Emma Clark? Or even Rose, for that matter?"

"They'd deserve it," Mercer said disgustedly.

"I'm quite sure, however annoying they may be, that they wouldn't deserve it at all," Victoria said calmly. "But I doubt that would stop you."

Mercer had nothing to say to that, so instead he casually leaned back against the wall and glowered at her.

"The only person I can think of – besides myself and Cutler – that you wouldn't intentionally bring harm to would be Cat," Victoria concluded, ignoring his glare.

A dark look flitted across Mercer's face. "I haven't seen Cat in a long time," he said stiffly. "I expect she's found some rich and scabby lord to marry."

Beckett took a swig from his wine glass. "A duke, actually," he said offhandedly.

"What?" Victoria and Mercer exclaimed simultaneously.

He set down his wine glass with surprising care and said, "Apparently, Miss Whitlock is engaged to marry a duke."

"_Which_ duke?" Mercer demanded furiously. "And _why_?"

"Because," Beckett said icily, "Some miscreant has gotten the innocent Miss Whitlock with child."

Victoria's eyes darted to Mercer, and Mercer looked stricken. Beckett continued pitilessly, "So of course her parents had to find her a husband who wouldn't mind the damage done to her. Not many would step forward to accept her, but the first to do so was Duke Lawless."

At that Mercer looked ready to kill. "He's not touching her!" he spat.

"Oh, are you going to step forward and take responsibility for the child, then?" Beckett inquired in a pleasant tone. "How gentlemanly of you. However, I highly doubt that, with Lawless' offer in place, they'll decide to let _you_ have her. Rather, I imagine they'll order your hanging. And with you dead, poor little Catherine will have to marry Lawless anyway."

Mercer collapsed back against the wall, leaning heavily against the solid surface. "I've ruined her…" he murmured despairingly.

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you bedded her," Beckett said frigidly.

Mercer's hands clenched into fists, but he was too well trained after all this time to be capable of hurting Beckett. He turned instead and stormed out of the dining room, presumably to return to his house for the night.

Beckett resumed eating the instant Mercer had gone, calm and collected, as though nothing had happened. He glanced across the table and saw Victoria's disapproving stare. "What?" he asked her, annoyed.

"You certainly could have handled that with more tact," she said angrily.

"And let him think I approved of his actions?" Beckett said incredulously. "He needed _some_ form of punishment for what he's done."

"And having Cat married to the man who essentially got his sister killed isn't enough of a punishment?" Victoria exclaimed. "I don't think there's a penalty more thoroughly undeserved than that."

Beckett laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, Tori," he said, shaking his head, "You know, you really haven't changed. You _still_ believe your little fairy tale fantasies can come true somewhere."

Victoria threw her napkin onto her plate and stood up. "I have to believe they happen somewhere," she said bitterly, "Because it's clear they'll never happen to me." With that, she stormed out of the dining room and ran upstairs in a rush, halfway wishing she had stayed in the country, away from Beckett and London and all the wickedness contained therein.

* * *

Beckett didn't come upstairs for a long time that night. Victoria knew; she'd counted the long and sleepless hours as they'd passed her by. She'd listened to the scratching of his quill as he'd worked in the room next door; she'd watched the flickering light of the lantern he worked by from under the door – but he still he didn't come.

When the door to the bedroom finally swung open and lantern light briefly fell across her face, she said in a tired voice, "It's nearly one o'clock in the morning, you know."

Beckett looked a bit astonished to find her there. "My apologies," he said, setting the lantern down on her dressing table. "I didn't realize we were on speaking terms again."

"If you'd like me to continue not speaking to you, I can certainly oblige you," Victoria said acidly, propping herself up on her elbow. "But I thought you might actually have missed me enough to _want_ me to converse with you. Apparently I was mistaken."

Beckett rolled his eyes as he stripped off his frock coat. "I meant," he said testily, "That I thought you were still angry with me and hence wouldn't be sleeping with me."

"I can sleep elsewhere if you'd prefer."

"No!" Beckett winced slightly at sharpness of his own command. "You can stay if you wish," he said, casually this time.

Victoria chuckled. "How obliging of you," she mocked. "Not that it matters; I would have stayed whether you wanted me here or not."

Beckett smirked. "Missed me, did you?" he said smugly.

Victoria shrugged slightly. "It's been so long I've rather forgotten what I'm missing."

"Well then, permit me to remind you." Finished undressing, he blew out the candle inside the lamp and then slipped into bed beside her. In the dark, he reached up and touched her face, tracing the pattern of scars that now lined it. He removed his hand, then pulled her tightly against him and kissed her fiercely.

"I'll have vengeance for what they did to you," he breathed hotly in her ear. "I promise…"


	23. Deal with the Devil

**A/N: This is the final chapter of _Ruthless_. Thank you so much for all your readership and support! It has meant much to me. There is a sequel in the making for this story, but for now, enjoy the final chapter!**

When Beckett awoke the following morning, he found that Victoria had already risen. She was sitting before her mirror, staring impassively at her own face and the marks upon it. "What are you doing?" Beckett asked, both groggy and irritated.

"Looking at myself," Victoria replied matter of factly, her eyes never moving from her reflection. "I find that if I start off my mornings reminding myself of the way I look these days, the stares and grimaces of strangers don't quite affect me so badly."

"I'm glad," Beckett said sullenly. "Now come back to bed."

Victoria smiled and glanced over her shoulder, green eyes sparkling brightly. The scar that sliced a path from her eye to her nose stretched and crinkled with the smile. "Missing me already?" she asked.

"It's bloody cold in here," Beckett said gruffly.

"Ha!" Victoria snorted in disbelief, but she rose from her seat and slid under the covers beside him. "It's only your cold blood that freezes you so."

"You're just as cold-blooded as me," Beckett said, tugging her comfortably against him.

"Not nearly so much. I have only killed one person, whereas you have literally slain and destroyed hundreds, if not thousands."

"Haven't reached the thousand mark yet," Beckett said sleepily. "But I will soon enough…"

"Satan has a special place for you in hell, I'm sure," Victoria said wryly. "Then we'll see what good your cold blood does to chill you."

Beckett laughed lowly and opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment Mary bustled in, head bowed. "Breakfast is ready, milord – milady," she said, peeking briefly at Victoria's back.

"Thank you," Beckett said rather crossly. When Mary didn't budge, he added, "You are dismissed."

She glanced up timidly. "Does milady need my help?" she asked softly.

"I'll be fine, thank you," Victoria said curtly.

Mary's head dropped again, and she turned and silently left.

"I should throw her out onto the street," Beckett growled.

"Why? Has she insulted you?"

"No – you're the one she slights."

"Not really." Victoria sat up, stretched, and slipped from bed again despite a sharp and uncouth protest from Beckett. "But I wouldn't object if you found her a new employer. I miss Eleanor most days."

"As my Lady wishes." Beckett leapt from bed in one fluid motion, going to his wardrobe and removing a fresh suit of clothes – a silver-gray coat with fine blue edging and a pale blue waistcoat to match. "You're sure you can dress yourself?" Beckett inquired as he watched Victoria set out the various parts of her gown.

"I'm certain I can't," she replied, "But you can help me."

"I _can_, but I won't," Beckett retorted over his shoulder. "I've places to go this morning."

"Such as where?" Victoria asked scornfully.

Beckett lifted an envelope with neat scripting across its front from his pile of clothes, dropped onto the chair the night before. "Your dear friend Catherine has sent for me – her messenger was rather secretive about it, so I imagine it must have something to do with the child she's carrying."

The mention of Cat and Mercer's baby set a dark mood on Victoria. "Oh," she said, a bit angrily. "I see."

Beckett glanced at her, but said nothing.

"What? No smart remark from my husband?" Victoria said caustically.

"None. I've only just gotten you to forgive me. I don't feel the need to receive the cold shoulder for another four months." He reached over and carefully placed his wig on his head, setting it perfectly in place.

"You didn't receive the cold shoulder for four months – you sent me away, you bastard!" Victoria cried.

"You ran away," Beckett pointed out. "I might have changed my mind if you'd stayed here, you know."

"It was plain I wasn't wanted," Victoria said angrily. "Now help me with this before I throw my stays at you."

Beckett chuckled, but gave in. "How tight?" he asked, taking the laces of her corset.

"If I'm not gasping every time I speak, it isn't tight enough," Victoria told him.

"Dear lord," Beckett said incredulously. "Why do women torture themselves this way?"

"To impress wicked men like yourself," Victoria shot back. "Why aren't you pulling?"

Beckett gave the corset a forceful tug. "Hard enough for you?" he asked.

"About as weak as your effort in bed last night," Victoria said airily.

Beckett inhaled sharply. "Effort?" he repeated furiously. "_Effort?_ I'll show you effort!" And with that, he gave a vindictive pull that literally pulled Victoria back from the wardrobe she had been leaning against.

"Ohh!" she gasped, clutching at her waist. "Bloody hell, Cutler, I wasn't serious!"

"You'd best not have been," Beckett grumbled, remorsefully loosening the laces a little. "But you're gasping with every word, so I've done exactly as you wished."

"Cold-hearted prig," Victoria sniffed, her chest heaving as she took in a breath.

Beckett turned her to face him and kissed her lightly. "You wouldn't love me if I was anything else," he said. He pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and added, "I should go. Cat's expecting me."

Victoria frowned slightly. "Be kind to her, Cutler," she ordered. "She does not deserve your anger or your disdain."

"I'll… do my best," Beckett said – not entirely reassuring. Victoria cast him a stern glance, but he was already slipping out the door. "I'll be back this evening," he called over his shoulder. "After the Whitlocks' I'll be going to the Company's headquarters. I'll be home in time for dinner. Don't go out – not even into the gardens."

"But -!" Victoria started to protest, but Beckett was already gone. Victoria glanced at herself in the mirror and saw the angry red flush on her face – the humiliation placed on her by one single order. _Don't go out – not even into the gardens_. Her husband was ashamed of her, no matter what he said.

Victoria forcefully swallowed her pride and made to finish dressing. If Beckett was ashamed of her, then she would have to be unashamed of herself. She grabbed her gown and finished her preparations for the day, then sailed out, ready to face the day.

* * *

Cat was waiting at the window when Beckett arrived at the door. She was already standing and pacing the room when the butler answered the door. She twisted her hands nervously before her, occasionally pausing to run her hands over her lower belly – knowing her child was growing there.

The butler entered the room, Beckett's cape swung over his arm. "Lord Beckett, Miss Whitlock," the butler said with a bow, "Is here to see you."

"Thank you," Cat said, waving a hand dismissively. "You may show him in."

The butler stood aside, and Beckett entered with his usual confident strut. "Miss Whitlock," he said with a polite nod. "How are you this morning?"

"As well as can be expected," Cat said shortly, eyes following the butler and remaining locked on him until he closed the door behind him. As soon as the heavy wooden doors were shut she burst out, "I wanted to come to you when I first realized… well, what had happened - but since Victoria was away in the country you were never home when I came by and Victoria wasn't there to convince you to see me. So I was forced to confess to my parents when I'd only wanted to ask you for your advice and then I found myself engaged to the most dangerous rake in London –!"

"Ah, yes," Beckett interrupted sardonically. "Duke Lawless. The only man who would step up and claim a damaged woman for his wife."

Cat flinched at the derision in his tone, but she forged ahead anyway, believing that perhaps he would still help her. "In our meetings so far, Lawless has been generally charming and generous to me," she said with some relief, "Which endears him to me – but I'm not certain how long such behavior will last once we're married."

"It won't last," Beckett assured her rather coldly. "Lawless is a dangerous man. He has done terrible things in the past to the disadvantaged and the wealthy alike. To me it seems most likely that he only seeks your fortune." Beckett glanced sharply at her. "I tell you this not to be generous, but to forewarn you," he said. "It is plain to me how… _innocent_ you are in these matters and I thought, before you married, that you should know Lawless does nothing without being certain he'll get something from it. Do you understand?"

She understood, but her thoughts were most certainly elsewhere. "Where's… Mercer?" she asked, nervously twisting her skirt in her hand. "Is he still in London?"

Beckett's eyes narrowed, hard, cold blue slits studying her threateningly. "He's in the country with Victoria," he said. "He most likely won't be back for quite some time. Why?"

Cat flushed. "I'd like to see him," she requested quietly.

Beckett smiled mirthlessly. "I don't think that would be wise," he said.

"Why not?" Cat cried. "He should know – and he should hear it from me!"

"Oh, really?" Beckett sneered. "Pity you think so. _I'll_ tell him for you. As his employer, I'll also see to it that he's punished for what he did to you."

"What he _did_ to me?" Cat repeated in disbelief. "We wanted this!"

"An illegitimate child?" Beckett said mockingly. "That I doubt. Miss Whitlock, I don't think you realize how grave your situation is. You have been compromised and Mercer is likely to be killed if you confirm he's the father of your child."

"He won't!" Cat gasped in horror.

"Oh, but he will," Beckett assured her, none-too-kindly. "Is that what you _really_ want, Miss Whitlock – to have Mercer admit to his relations with you, only to be killed? Then you truly _will_ be alone in the world. Your parents will forsake you; then Lawless will refuse to marry you; and your child will have no father and no one save a penniless street urchin fallen far from her former glory to care for it. You'll live on the streets, begging for a living or, worse still, whoring yourself out for profit. Now, tell me honestly: is that the future you are willing to accept, for both Mercer and yourself?"

Catherine was deeply shaken by this vision of ruin, but she lifted her chin and said proudly, "My parents wouldn't order Mercer's death. They might expect us to marry, certainly -!"

"And I suppose that too would please you?" Beckett said furiously. "Well, understand this: if, indeed, you should marry Mercer, I won't support either of you. The stain on my reputation will be great enough if Mercer admits your child is his; keeping him on as a servant would further the scandal, and I can't have that. Mercer has a good amount of money tucked away, I know, but not enough to support all three of you in a style even remotely similar to that in which you were raised. And when that money ran out, he'd be reduced to far more unpleasant and difficult work than you can imagine. He would do it, and he would do it well – he's not unused to hard labor, having come for extremely difficult circumstances. But you'd never be certain that your money came from a legitimate source; you'd certainly never be sure that there would be enough of it to begin with. Now, is _that_ what you want?"

Catherine stared at him, lip trembling. "I-I-I… no," she admitted with a sad sigh. "No, that's not what I want."

Beckett rose, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Well, then," he said, "Let's keep this between ourselves, shall we? It'll be best all around. Mercer may even visit the child every now and again, if you stay silent enough and I permit him."

Catherine had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all her life, but her good upbringing forced her to remain polite. "I thank you for your generous advice," she said bitingly. "I had hoped for something better, but I suppose I can't expect such kindness from the man who ruthlessly slaughters innocents."

"Innocence is a matter of perspective," Beckett said coolly. "And when you've finally come into a true understanding of the world, you'll realize that."

Cat had nothing to say to that. "Give my regards to your wife," she said, her voice chilly.

"I shall," Beckett said airily. "Good day to you, Miss Whitlock."

Then he'd left her alone to contemplate her bleak future and mourn for what could never be.

* * *

It was a bit astonishing how quickly word got out among the aristocrats in London society. Even Rosemary was rather amazed at how speedily she had heard the news that Victoria had returned to London. Ironically, she had learned of Victoria's arrival from Charlotta Harris and Emma Clark, who had come to small card-playing gathering at Presbery's home despite the fact that they had not been invited. They had been avidly gossiping with the other ladies at the card table, telling them that Victoria had jealously interrupted a deep conversation they'd been having with Beckett. "He was quite taken with me," Charlotta had been saying. "But Victoria appeared out of nowhere and tossed both of us out in a fit of envy. And you wouldn't believe the ridiculous cloak she was wearing – couldn't even see her face!"

Rosemary had felt a sickening wrench in her gut at that – she remembered all too well the bloody gashes all across her friend's face, and she was more than aware that there would most likely be scars. Of course, no one else in the aristocracy was aware of the damage – or even that Victoria had been kidnapped. Rose had said nothing to Charlotta and Emma except, "I didn't recall sending you two an invitation," at which point they promptly excused themselves to the other women and said they had other parties to attend. But Rosemary had kept their story in mind, and had promised herself that she would visit Victoria the very next day.

She had expected to be received immediately into the Beckett household when she arrived that morning; but although she was brought instantly into the parlor, Victoria was nowhere to be found – and Oscar wasn't telling Rose where she'd gone.

"She _is_ here, isn't she?" Rose finally asked Oscar in passing, after she'd been sitting in parlor nearly an hour.

"Perhaps," Oscar said slyly, glancing at her with a raised brow. "Perhaps not."

"Oscar Boddie!" Rose cried angrily. "I want to know how my best friend is faring!"

"She's quite well – quite well indeed… if a little… _changed_." Oscar laughed darkly and turned away.

"What do you mean?" Rose said in alarm. She leapt from her seat and grabbed Oscar's arm. "Oscar, where is she?"

"Locked in the attic with the other prisoners of Beckett's fancy," Oscar said mischievously.

"Not funny!" Rose snapped angrily. "Oscar, please – I'm her friend. She's like my sister."

Oscar sniffed, completely unmoved. "I was told not to let anyone see her," he said with an air of great finality.

"What?" Rose said sharply. "Why not?"

"Beckett's orders," Oscar said with a shrug.

"But I'm… _me!_" Rose exclaimed. "Victoria and I have been together since the cradle! I'm not just some passerby stopping by to gawk at her! I _have_ to see her!"

Oscar shrugged. "Not my problem, Miss," he said. "Ask the fairies for help."

"Ask the – _what_?" Rose repeated in astonishment, but he was already gone.

_Hmmph_. _I won't budge. I'll wait here until she has to see me._

And she stuck to that, too – even when Oscar intentionally walked by her with Victoria's lunch on a tray, then later with tea, although he offered her nothing. Her stomach growled alarmingly loud as Oscar walked by, but he seemed heedless. In fact, even when she repeatedly railed at and insulted him, he continued to ignore her with a serene expression that gave her the idea he didn't hear a word. Finally, she was reduced to sitting slumped and defeated in her parlor chair, pouting excessively.

She received no further attention until long after dark, when Beckett returned home with Mercer in tow. Rose didn't realize who had entered the house until she heard Oscar speaking to him. "Miss Wellington's been here all day, sir," Oscar said with respect. "I tried to have the faeries boot her out, but they'll not listen to me…"

"They'd best not," Beckett grumbled. "I worked damn hard to keep them under my control and _only_ mine. What's the Lady Whore want?"

"She wants to see Lady Beckett, sir. I told her it wasn't allowed."

"Good." At that, the parlor doors swung open, and Beckett stood there, eyes narrowed at Rose. "Out," he said tersely.

Rose leapt to her feet. "No!" she exclaimed. "I'm not leaving without seeing Victoria!"

"Actually, you are," Beckett said coldly. "Mr. Mercer!"

"David Mercer, don't you dare -!" Rosemary yelled into the hallway.

"Who is this 'David' you speak of?" Mercer drawled as he entered the room. "I don't know anyone by that name."

"But – but Cat -!" Rose said in bewilderment.

"You're not Cat," Mercer said darkly, grabbing her arm. "I'll see you home, Miss Wellington – unless you have a different man's house to visit."

"Who else would I visit?" Rosemary demanded, violently attempting to wrench herself from Mercer's grip. "Presbery's out of town for a few weeks." She turned and screamed as loudly as she could, "VICTORIA!"

There was a pause, and then a door burst open. "Rose?" Victoria's voice echoed in the entryway of the house.

"TORI!" Rose called in relief. "Tori, Beckett won't let me see you and I've been waiting all day –!"

"Tori, don't move," Beckett ordered from the base of the stairs.

"Cutler, what in the name of God are you doing?" Victoria cried in alarm, her hurried footsteps echoing through the corridor.

"Victoria Trilby Thorne, take one step further and I'll chain you to a wall for the next month," Beckett warned.

The footsteps halted. "It's just Rose," Victoria said in confusion.

"I don't care," Beckett snapped. "_No one _is permitted to see you, not even the bloody King himself."

There was dead silence at that – and that silence said more than any words could have. Rosemary attempted to tear away from Mercer, but his grip was too firm; and with one swift pull he wrested her from the landing and out the door. Beckett's carriage was still waiting outside, and Mercer wasted no time tossing Rosemary violently into it before leaping up, taking the reigns, and starting off at a mad pace back into London while Rose banged on the window and stared hopelessly back at the disappearing manor that now acted as a prison for her former best friend.

* * *

The carriage rode at breakneck speed down the road into London, with Mercer at the reins. The carriage jolted crazily along the path, but he didn't care. His passenger needed a little jostling every now and again, in his opinion – if she wasn't getting it from her soon-to-be husband in a more sinful form. And anyway, he was feeling a little reckless that night; it was, after all, the last night he would be in London.

Victoria's tip on the pirate ship _Redemption _had led Beckett to some valuable information. The _Redemption_ was headed to Delhi in India to meet a French contact by the last name of Bussiere. Supposedly, this _Bussiere_ knew the location of a mysterious Arabian treasure referred to mostly as the Hand. That was all they could discover, but it was enough.

In Beckett's office that afternoon, when Mercer had returned with what he'd gathered and set it before Beckett, he'd said abruptly, "I want to follow them."

Beckett had glanced up at him curiously. "Oh really?" he said. "Why so anxious?"

"Too many… distractions here," he'd said with a slight grimace. "And it'd be best if I make myself scarce."

Beckett had studied him carefully. "You realize you'll be gone a long time – maybe a year or more," he'd said casually.

A nod from Mercer.

"All the pirates will have to be killed, and Bussiere too if he proves to be a menace."

"I can do it."

"I don't doubt your capabilities," Beckett had said, "Merely your emotional state at the moment."

"Getting out of the country will help my emotional state," Mercer had assured him. "And don't you think my anger will serve me well in a mission requiring me to kill people?"

Beckett had laughed at that. "Well, if that's what you want, Mercer… then go," he'd said. "You're the best I have. And it will be well to… forget little Catherine. She'll survive here. You know that… don't you?"

Mercer had felt rather sickly at the mention of Catherine, but he'd remained completely calm. "Her body will survive," he said. "But her soul won't."

"Does that trouble you?"

Mercer hesitated, then shook his head. "No, sir."

Beckett had looked amused. "Liar," he said with a shake of his noble head. "But it won't trouble you much longer. You'll recover someday. She's just a girl."

_She's just a girl_. Well, Mercer wasn't confident he believed that yet… but he would. He was certain of it. If Beckett wanted him to forget, then he would. If India would help him forget… if the mission would harden him… then so much the better.

He halted the carriage before the Wellington manor. Mercer waited a few moments to see if Rosemary would get out herself, but when she made no move to do so, he leapt down. He threw open the door and glared at her. "Out," he ordered.

Rose glared stonily at him. "Cat's pregnant," she mentioned offhandedly.

His face darkened. "I know," he murmured.

Rose studied him carefully. "She's going to marry Duke Lawless," she said. "He finally gave up on me after I publicly humiliated him at my engagement party."

"Good for you," Mercer groused. "Now get out."

"Are you going to do anything to stop him?" Rose questioned.

"No."

She looked incredulous. "No?"

"No." He stood aside from the door, motioning widely with one hand. "Get out."

"Why ever not?" Rose exclaimed. "It's your child! And you love her!"

"No, I don't," he said irately. "Get out, before I toss you out."

Rose's eyes narrowed. "You're a soulless bastard," she said hatefully. "I hope you know that."

"I take pride in the fact," Mercer said, completely unruffled. "Shall I forcibly remove you, or will you get out willingly?"

"Oh, don't trouble yourself," Rosemary said frigidly. "I'm leaving." She climbed down from the carriage and paused to look directly into his eyes. "I hope you realize what a terrible person you are," she said cuttingly.

He thought of Beckett's orders and the pirates soon to face his menace. "Oh, believe me, Rose," he said forebodingly. "I know."

* * *

Beckett waited until the door was closed before ascending the stairs to his wife. She was standing near the top, hands clenched at her sides. Her face was otherwise completely blank. "Tori -" he started, but she held up one hand to silence him.

"Don't," she said coldly. "I don't want to hear your reasons or excuses."

"Yes, you do," Beckett said irritably.

Victoria glared at him. "Well, I certainly can't prevent you from sharing them," she said, turning on her heel and starting to walk away from him. He rapidly followed behind her.

"Obviously you aren't willing to listen," he snapped, reaching out to grab her wrist.

She jerked away. "Should I be?" she asked harshly. "You're ashamed of me. You don't have to lie."

"I'm not ashamed of you," Beckett said impatiently. "I may have -"

"If you're not ashamed of me, then why are you keeping me locked in the house?" Victoria demanded. "You don't want anyone to see me; isn't that it?"

"Yes, but -!"

"But nothing," Victoria said in disgust, turning away from him. "You wouldn't feel as if you had to hide me away if you weren't ashamed."

"Victoria, will you shut up for five seconds and listen to me?" Beckett snapped.

"No!" Victoria exclaimed, storming down the hall.

Beckett watched her for a moment, his teeth gritted, and finally shouted after her, "I've found a way to make the scars disappear."

She froze, then turned to him slowly, eyes wide. "Wha- how?" she whispered, going still as a statue.

"There's a book," he said, smirking in satisfaction now that he had her attention. "A book of magic that once belonged to Morgan le Fay, King Arthur's half-sister. She was unparalleled in the arts of necromancy and dark magic."

"I know," Victoria said breathlessly. "And… and you think this book… can help?"

"I know it can," Beckett told her softly. "I've found the spell to heal all scars – to create even greater beauty than existed before."

"Then you've seen this book?"

"Not the book itself, but a copy," he explained. "The agent who brought me Arthur's sword recently offered me the original. He hasn't traded it for it yet, but he said he was working on reclaiming it. The copy he showed me is apparently from an old monastery somewhere near the coast, but the original was found in France, for whatever reason. He should have it soon."

Victoria's hands began to twist before her. "Is the spell easy?"

Beckett snorted. "Hardly," he said. "We'll have to learn Morgan's arts before we can even think of attempting the spell. But if we devote as much time as possible to the learning, then we will soon be able to change the marks the pirates left you." He took a step towards her. "It will be a slow process," he warned. "And none from the aristocracy can see you before your transformation. If even one of them learns of your scars, they will all begin to wonder where they've gone."

Victoria smiled wryly. "They'll think I've gone to the devil for help."

"Something to that effect." He studied her carefully from down the hall. "Are you willing to try it?" he asked her.

Her green eyes were shining. "Yes," she said. "Yes, by God, I will do it. And I'll even stay locked away willingly in here." She shook her head, her smile bright. "I wouldn't want anyone to think I've had dealings with the devil…"

Beckett laughed mirthlessly. "Tori," he said darkly, "I _am_ the devil."

END


End file.
